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warpdrive-witch · 24 days ago

Text

It Worked (18/23)

Words: 28.1 k. MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT.

Summary: Smut. Protective Agatha & Rio. Flashback. Connecting the dots. Buckleup babe. It's gonna get a little bumpy.

Who I Belong To

The house was quiet.

Not in that hollow, eerie way—but in the sacred hush of early morning. The kind of stillness that arrives just before the world remembers it has somewhere to be. Pale light feathered through the curtains of the nursery, softening the edges of the walls Rio had painted in quiet greens and warm star tones. The radiator let out a low, steady hum beneath the window. Somewhere deep in the house, the plumbing sighed like it, too, had turned over in bed and decided not to rise yet.

You were already awake. Sleep had evaded you again, as it often did now. Thirty-five weeks in, your body wasn’t interested in the stillness your mind craved. Your hips ached. Your ribs stretched. And your daughter—your beautiful, persistent daughter—had started her morning stretches just after four a.m., her little foot pressing insistently against your side like a punctuation mark.

You didn’t bother trying to fall back asleep. Instead, you slipped from the warmth of the bed, careful not to disturb Rio’s steady breathing or the comforting weight of Agatha’s arm draped loosely across your waist. Your belly shifted as you stood, round and full and leading the way as you moved softly down the hall. The nursery door creaked slightly as it opened, and you hushed it instinctively.

The room greeted you like an old friend. The rocker was already calling you—a nest of blankets folded just so, your daughter’s tiny bookshelf within reach. You settled into the chair with a long, slow exhale, letting the quilt pull around your legs. The ache in your back eased slightly. Your hand fell instinctively to your belly, where she rolled once more, a long, slow stretch that rippled just beneath your skin.

“Good morning, Sprout,” you murmured, voice just above a breath. “Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” There was another little kick in response. You chuckled, low and warm. “Yeah. Me too. Guess we’re both just… wide awake for no good reason.”

You reached for the book already resting on the table: Goodnight Moon. A classic. Comforting. Familiar. You’d started reading it to her a few weeks ago, when her kicks had grown strong enough to answer you. This morning, she answered again—one soft bump, then a press of heel or elbow against your palm.

You smiled. Your voice dropped into rhythm, low and lilting, your fingers moving slowly across the page as you read: “In the great green room, there was a telephone… and a red balloon… and a picture of…” The words carried easily into the quiet, a song of domestic softness. You weren’t in a rush. You read slowly. Paused between pages to let your breath catch. To press your palm against her movements. To close your eyes and imagine the shape of her body curled tight against your ribcage, listening.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. You were halfway through your second book—a soft watercolor collection of lullabies and affirmations—when the door creaked again. Rio’s silhouette filled the frame, backlit by the gentle amber of the hallway light. Her sweatshirt sleeves were too long, her curls a warm halo of sleep-tousled chaos. Her eyes, though—those were wide awake the moment they found you. Her mouth curved. Not into a smirk, not yet—but into something quieter. Like awe wrapped in morning softness. “Morning, honey,” she whispered, her voice still sandpapered with sleep.

You looked up from the page and smiled, your free hand still resting protectively across your belly. “We’re almost done,” you said softly. “Storytime. She kicked me awake. I figured she wanted a chapter.”

Rio padded into the room, the hardwood warm under her bare feet. She crouched to sit on the ottoman in front of you, one hand bracing her knee as she eased down. “Starting early, huh?” she murmured. “You and her both.”

“She was insistent,” you said, turning the page. “One solid boot to the ribs. Like, ‘Excuse me, Mama, the moon book is overdue.’”

Rio snorted and rested her elbows on her knees. “Calling the shots already.”

“She gets it from you.”

“Hey,” Rio said, feigning offense, “I am a cooperative, nonviolent leader.”

You raised your brows. “Uh-huh. Sure. Tell that to the co-ed softball team you yelled at last year for being late to warm-ups.”

“Okay, but that was discipline, not dictatorship,” she said, then leaned closer, palm smoothing gently over your belly. “Hi, mi amor. Did Mama tell you the end of the story yet?” Your daughter answered with a small press. You both stilled. Rio’s voice dropped lower. “Yeah. I heard her reading. She's good, huh? Got a voice like honey and thunder.”

You rolled your eyes softly. “Flatter me more, why don’t you.”

“Later,” Rio said, grinning. “When you’re not holding a book like it's sacred scripture.”

She didn’t speak again—not yet. Just crossed to the ottoman in front of you and sat, elbows on her knees, chin in one palm, watching. You read the final pages aloud, your voice steady even as your daughter began her slow, rhythmic stretching beneath your shirt. You turned the last page. “She likes the last line,” you said. “She always kicks when we get there.”

Rio’s hand was still warm against your belly. She closed her eyes and waited. “Goodnight noises… everywhere.”

A little nudge. Right beneath her palm. “See?” you whispered, smiling. “Told you.”

Rio opened her eyes slowly. “God, I love her,” she murmured. “Already. So much.”

Your chest ached at the way she said it. Like prayer. Like breath. She leaned forward, kissed the top of your bump, and whispered against your skin, “Don’t let this become your favorite book, Sprout. We’re introducing you to Where the Wild Things Are by Tuesday.”

You laughed, rich and low. “That’s Agatha’s plan. She said if we start with Max, she’ll have the kid quoting Sappho by kindergarten.”

“I’d be disappointed if she didn’t,” Rio said.

Then her eyes flicked toward the bookshelf behind you, to the row of cloth-spined picture books you’d both collected over the last few months. Her expression shifted—thoughtful, then bright. “Wait,” she murmured, already rising from the ottoman. “I’ve got one.”

You watched as she padded quietly across the nursery, fingers trailing over the spines until she found what she was looking for. A slim board book—soft-yellow cover, well-worn at the corners. Besitos Para Mi Bebé. You remembered the day she found it in the independent bookstore downtown, tucked between a bilingual counting book and one shaped like a moon.

She returned with a grin, held it up like a trophy. “Storytime’s not over,” she said. “It’s just my turn.”

You settled deeper into the rocker, your palm gliding across the taut curve of your belly. “She’s going to love this,” you said softly. “She always kicks when she hears your voice.”

Rio winked, then dropped back onto the ottoman and opened the book to the first page. Her voice changed as she read—dropping low, soft and lilting, pulling the Spanish like silk from her throat. “Primero te doy un besito… en la punta de la nariz.”

Her fingers brushed gently through the air in demonstration, and your daughter rolled under your skin—one firm nudge, then a twist. You both felt it. “Oh?” Rio said, smiling at your belly. “¿Eso te gustó, mi amor?”

Another kick. Deliberate. Eager. Rio laughed, delighted, then kept going: “Después, un besito en tu panza redonda…” She leaned forward and pressed her lips gently to the highest curve of your belly, her breath warm against your skin. “Y uno más en los deditos de tus pies.”

The baby rolled again, a flutter beneath your ribs this time, like she was stretching just to hear more. You reached out and brushed your fingers through Rio’s curls as she continued, the language wrapping around all three of you like a lullaby. “She loves it,” you whispered.

Rio didn’t look up right away. She just smiled down at the page, her thumb smoothing over the corner like she was memorizing the moment. “Of course she does,” she murmured. “It’s in her bones.”

You exhaled—slow, full. Letting the warmth of the morning settle deep in your chest. Then Rio closed the book with a soft thump, then leaned forward and kissed the center of your belly again, slow, reverent, her breath warming through the cotton of your shirt. “Te amo, pequeña,” she said softly. “Más de lo que sabes.”

The baby didn’t kick again—but she shifted slowly, like she was settling, soothed. And for a while, so were you. You smiled, brushing your fingers once more over the place her lips had touched. Your daughter shifted again, just beneath your palm—a slow, sleepy ripple like she’d heard every word. Then Rio looked up at you. “Alright,” she murmured, rising to her feet. “Come on, gorgeous. Let’s get you standing before you fuse with that chair.”

You gave a mock groan and extended your hands toward her. “Only if you promise not to judge the sounds I make.”

“No promises,” Rio said, grinning as she took your hands.

She braced her feet and pulled gently, guiding you forward. As your weight shifted out of the rocker, your body protested in every joint. You winced, one hand immediately sliding to your back, the other slipping beneath the full swell of your belly as you stood. “Ohhh, she’s low this morning,” you muttered. “I feel like I’ve got a bowling ball taped to my spine.”

Rio chuckled, steadying you with one arm around your waist. “A beautiful, brilliant bowling ball. Let’s get you moving.”

You leaned into her for a beat, letting the warmth of her hold ground you. Then, with a slow inhale, you both began the short walk down the hallway. The nursery door clicked shut behind you, leaving the quiet of storytime in its wake. The soft creak of the floor marked your progress. Rio’s hand never left your back. She pressed a kiss to your temple as you passed through the threshold of the bedroom, her lips lingering against your skin like she couldn’t help herself.

Inside, the curtains had been pulled half-open. Golden light poured across the bed in long bands, striping the quilt and catching on the dark silk of Agatha’s robe. She stood beside the bed, sleep-soft and barefoot, her hair half-up and tumbling around her shoulders. She was just stretching—arms overhead, spine arching, one eye barely open—when she saw you. Her whole body stilled. “There you two are,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep and affection.

You stepped in with Rio still at your side, your hand bracing your belly as another small nudge curled up beneath your ribs. Agatha smiled slowly as you approached, like seeing the two of you lit something in her chest. She crossed the room in three unhurried steps. Kissed Rio first—quick, fond, hand at her waist. Then she turned to you. Her lips brushed your cheek. Then your mouth. Then—slow, gentle, she lowered herself until she was level with your belly. Agatha pressed both palms reverently to your sides, curved her body forward, and kissed the place where your daughter moved just beneath the skin. “Good morning, little one,” she whispered. “Already getting Mama up for storytime, hmm?”

Your breath caught. Agatha looked up, smiling at you from below. She stood slowly, hands smoothing up your sides as she rose. When her eyes met yours, there was that familiar quiet warmth that lived just beneath her sharpness. The tenderness she reserved for moments like this.

“You ready for the committee meeting today?” Agatha asked, voice softer than usual, but sure.

You exhaled, slow and full, then nodded once. “I think so.”

Agatha’s hand drifted to your cheek. Her thumb brushed just beneath your eye, a small grounding circle.

“Good,” she said. “Because they’re not ready for you.”

You let out a quiet laugh—more breath than sound—as your gaze dropped briefly to the space between you, then back up to meet hers. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.” Her voice didn’t waver. “You walk into rooms like a storm and forget you’re the one pulling the tide. They won’t know what hit them.”

“Agatha,” you said, heat rising behind your ribs. “It’s just a meeting. I’m not conjuring fire.”

“You are,” she said, eyes glinting. “Just not the way they’re used to seeing it.”

Behind you, Rio made a soft sound—equal parts agreement and amusement. “Let her hype you up, cariño. It’s her favorite form of foreplay.”

You snorted, trying to shift your weight, but the ache in your hips dragged a grimace across your face. Your hand dropped to the underside of your belly. “Ugh. She’s sitting so low, I swear my pelvis has its own gravitational pull.”

Behind you, Rio’s hand brushed lightly down the length of your spine. “Want me to hold her for a second?” she asked gently, stepping closer, her breath warm against the shell of your ear. “Just lift a little… give you a break?”

You didn’t answer with words—just let your eyes flutter shut for a beat and gave her a small nod. “Okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Rio moved slowly, reverently. Her hands slid around from behind—firm, practiced, palms bracing low on the curve of your belly. Then, with the gentlest lift, she took on the weight of your daughter. A few inches of support. Just enough to make your whole body sigh in relief. Your exhale was immediate, long, involuntary, laced with quiet awe. Your shoulders dropped. Your knees nearly buckled. The relief was instant and stunning. Your shoulders dropped. Your spine realigned. The ache dulled to something far-off. “Ohhhh,” you breathed, eyes still closed. “That’s heaven. That’s actual heaven.”

Agatha’s hand slid to your front, joining Rio’s without hesitation. Her palm spread wide just above the swell of your belly, fingers brushing over the spot where your daughter now floated a little lighter, buoyed by the strength of her Mamí. “That’s actual magic,” you whispered, head tipping back against her shoulder. “Don’t move. Ever.”

“I mean, I wasn’t planning to,” Rio said, grinning into your temple. “But now I’m staying like this until she’s in college.” The three of you stood there like that—wrapped in morning stillness, held together in touch. Rio steady behind you, her breath brushing your shoulder. Agatha in front, her thumb stroking softly across the stretched cotton of your shirt. Your daughter shifted again beneath their hands—a slow roll, a press of heel or elbow that met Agatha’s touch like a greeting. “She feels the difference,” Agatha whispered. “She knows you’re being held.”

You nodded faintly, breath trembling, chest expanding into the moment. “So do I.” Another few seconds passed. Rio adjusted slightly beneath your belly, lifting just a little more. You let your head tilt back onto her shoulder, eyes fluttering open now, lashes brushing her cheek. “God, I could stay like this all day.” Rio chuckled softly, her voice a warm rumble. “You say that now, but your hips will be angry by lunch. I’m gonna bring her down, okay?”

“Okay.” Slowly, carefully, Rio eased the lift, guiding your daughter’s full weight back into your center with patience and care. You felt every ounce return—like tidewater filling a basin. Your hand moved instinctively to meet the heaviness, cradling low and firm beneath your belly as it resettled. Your breath caught once, then evened out.

“There you go,” Rio murmured, kissing the side of your neck. “You’re good.” Agatha’s hand lingered a moment longer. Her eyes were soft as she watched your belly settle. Then she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the space just above your navel, lips warm and steady. You stood there for a moment longer, quiet in the golden spill of morning light—three bodies wrapped around one center. One breath. One weight. One heartbeat. Then, finally, Agatha straightened, her hand moving from your belly to your wrist. “Let’s get you dressed,” she said gently. “Time to let your committee see what we already know.”

------

The campus was already alive by the time you arrived. The wind had a hint of spring in it—still cool, but no longer sharp. Students moved across the brick paths in clusters, jackets half-zipped, earbuds tucked in, laughter rising and falling like birdsong. The flowering trees had started to blush pink at the tips, but the magnolias were still sleeping.

Your steps were slower now. Measured. The added weight shifted everything—your posture, your breath, your center of gravity. But you walked with your shoulders back, your hand resting beneath your belly, grounding yourself in rhythm. One step, one breath, one heartbeat.

The blazer still fit—barely. It was the one they’d surprised you with months ago, back when your body had just begun to change. Back when you’d stood in the dressing room, half-undone by how unfamiliar your reflection felt. You remembered the way Rio had kissed your shoulder over the dressing room curtain, how Agatha had placed her palm reverently against your waist and said, “We’re not hiding the change. We’re dressing the power.”

Today, that blazer framed you like armor. Not to conceal—only to honor. The buttons didn’t reach anymore, not across the full, bold arc of your belly. You left it open without shame. Your daughter stood between the lapels like a declaration. The line of your shirt stretched smooth over her. It didn’t look like she’d just arrived. She looked lived-in. Loved. Claimed. You ran a hand down your side and exhaled. The meeting was in fifteen minutes. You tugged lightly at the hem, adjusting out of habit, even though nothing was going to change the shape of you now. Then your hand returned instinctively to your stomach—just in time to feel her roll, slow and sure beneath your palm. Heavy. Certain. Like she was resettling for what came next.

Rio noticed the shift before you even said a word. You’d started fidgeting again—thumb brushing the edge of your sleeve, your lower lip caught gently between your teeth, your shoulders drawn up a little tighter than usual. She stepped in front of you like a tide, quiet but unmistakable. Her movement halted your path with all the practiced grace of someone who knew exactly where to find your breaking point and how to hold it still. “Hey,” she said gently, voice low and warm. “Look at me.”

You lifted your eyes. The wind moved through her curls as she tucked a piece behind your ear. Then her hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your cheekbone in a familiar rhythm. “You’ve got this.” You tried to nod, but it caught in your throat. “I know,” you said, though your voice trembled. “I just—my body feels big, and my brain feels small today, and—” Your voice cracked before you could finish.

Rio cut you off with a kiss. It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t try to erase the fear. It just anchored you. Her lips met yours with a steadiness that made your knees soften, a warmth that told you, you don’t have to hold all of this alone. One hand remained on your cheek. The other slid beneath your palm where it still rested on your belly. Your daughter stirred, just slightly—her way of answering.

When Rio pulled back, she didn’t move far. Her forehead rested against yours. “There is nothing in that room you can’t handle,” she said softly. “You’ve done the work. You know your shit. And more than that? Look at you.” You blinked, fighting the prickle behind your eyes. “You’re standing here—with your daughter growing under your skin, and your whole story sharpened into brilliance.” You took a deep breath, blinking against the heat behind your eyes.

Agatha stepped in next. She didn’t say anything right away. Just wrapped both arms around you from the side—her hand sliding over Rio’s on your belly, the other coming to your lower back. She tucked her face into the space just beneath your jaw and inhaled. “Let them look,” she murmured, voice velvet-dark. “None of it matters. Because you—” Her hand rose to your cheek, her eyes meeting yours, unwavering. “—are the smartest person in that room. Pregnant or not. Married or not. Glowing or exhausted or both, you’re stunning, intelligent, and ready for this; you’ve worked so hard.”

Her thumb brushed along your temple. “Just remember who the fuck you are.” The laugh that broke from your chest was soft, but full. It opened something in you. Your spine loosened. Your breath slowed. Agatha kissed your temple, her lips lingering for a beat longer than necessary. “Alright,” she said gently. “We’ve got class. But we’ll be right down the hall.”

Rio echoed it with a kiss to your other temple. “Come to us when you’re finished.” You nodded. Your voice was gone for the moment, but your hand rose to rest across your belly. You kissed Agatha’s cheek. Then Rio’s mouth. Then turned toward the building. The concrete steps echoed beneath your shoes. Your bag bumped lightly against your hip. They turned toward their offices—Agatha smoothing her sleeve as she walked, Rio glancing once more over her shoulder, her mouth still curved in that crooked, maddening, utterly grounding grin.

The bricks were warm underfoot. The light of morning softened the corners of the building ahead. You reached the glass door. For a moment, your reflection caught in the steel. Your blazer hung open. Your belly curved bold and beautiful between the folds. Your posture was straight. Your gaze clear. You pressed your hand once, soft and certain, to the underside of your stomach. “Let’s do this, mi amor,” you whispered.

The building was cooler inside—polished floors, clean walls, the faint smell of printer toner and brewed coffee drifting from somewhere nearby. Your footsteps softened as you moved down the hallway, the sound of your bag brushing your side and the faint creak of your shoes the only noise you carried with you. When you reached the conference room, the door was already open.

Dr. Li and Dr. Caldwell were inside, their conversation light as they arranged folders and mugs around the polished table. They looked up at the sound of your footsteps, and the change in their faces was immediate. Dr. Caldwell smiled first. Bright, open, almost maternal. Dr. Li followed with that signature nod of hers—small, precise, but unmistakably warm. They both rose as you entered. You moved toward them with your hand extended, aiming for a polite, professional greeting. But Dr. Caldwell let out a soft laugh and pulled you straight into a side hug. “None of that,” she said gently. Dr. Li followed, looping one arm carefully around your back, her other hand resting briefly against your upper arm in a gesture that somehow said I see you, without needing to speak it aloud. Their bodies moved in sync mindful of your belly, both reverent in their contact, not as if you were fragile, but as if what you carried deserved to be honored. The pride in their smiles cracked something loose in your chest. For a brief, glimmering second, the knot—the one made of expectations, and deadlines, and all the quiet ways you’d braced for judgment—unwound just slightly.

“Thank you again for the gifts. The journal and the tiny books… it meant a lot to me, to all three of us.”

Dr. Caldwell waved you off with a flick of her fingers, her eyes still shining. “We loved being able to celebrate with you.”

“Especially the books,” Dr. Li added, arching a brow. “Dr. Caldwell insisted on the bilingual set with the glittery covers.”

Dr. Caldwell grinned. “That baby is going to sparkle, and I won’t apologize for it.” You laughed, and something in your chest softened even more. The air in the room felt kinder than you expected. You settled slowly into the chair closest to the end of the table, placing your notes beside you in their crisp folder, smoothing your skirt with one hand as you sat. Polished. Prepared. Aware of the stakes.

Your body eased into the seat with a sigh, and just as your spine met the back of the chair, your daughter stretched beneath your skin. A roll, slow and pressing. Her little limbs shifting in long, deliberate arcs like she could sense the change in energy around her. You inhaled. Pressed your palm to the side of your belly. Still here, still with me. Dr. Li’s gaze swept over you, more observational than clinical. “How are you feeling? You’re steady on your feet, but you must be getting close.”

You nodded. “Thirty-five and a half. She’s dropped lower this week, but she’s still making room for herself whenever she can.”

Dr. Caldwell tilted her head, eyes soft. “You’re carrying beautifully. Honestly, you’re glowing.” You gave a quiet smile, one hand resting protectively over the baby as she rolled again, almost as if in response to the compliment. A slow press of her elbow or foot beneath your ribs. Present. Listening. Dr. Li glanced at the clock on the wall. Dr. Caldwell followed a second later. The meeting had officially started nearly ten minutes ago. You blinked, then looked toward the empty seat across from you.

Only then did you realize: Dr. Marcus wasn’t here. Dr. Li exhaled softly, then reached into her bag to pull out a small leather-bound notebook. She opened it with calm precision, though her fingers tapped once—twice—against the cover before stilling. Her eyes flicked to the door again, then back to you. Dr. Caldwell adjusted her glasses, her mouth tightening just slightly before smoothing again. Her gaze lingered on the empty seat for a beat. Then both women looked back to you. “Let’s get the meeting officially started,” Dr. Li said, her voice steady, decisive.

“Yes, let’s,” Dr. Caldwell added, flipping a page with brisk familiarity. “He can catch up.” You nodded, spine straightening in your chair, hand still pressed to your belly as your daughter settled again, as if marking the shift.

Then Dr. Li looked back to your folder and said, “Your edits were flawless.” She flipped open the manuscript again, her tone softer now. “You managed to sharpen the analysis and deepen the emotional resonance in the same breath. That is no small feat—especially under pressure.”

You didn’t realize how much you needed to hear that until you were already nodding, eyes stinging faintly. Your throat tightened—not with nerves, but with the relief of being seen as whole. Seen for what you carried. Inside and out. “This research has become… beautiful,” Dr. Caldwell said. “Elegant. Sharp. You’ve made it into something living. Walk us through everything.”

You nodded once more, inhaled deeply, and turned to the copy of your dissertation spread open before you. The paper was warm beneath your fingertips—thumbprints pressed faintly into the margins; the pages slightly curled from use. Your body shifted slightly in the chair as your daughter stretched again beneath your shirt, her weight settling low and steady. You began to speak—your voice calm, sure. Each word deliberate. You’d rehearsed this. You’d rewritten this work with hands that trembled some nights and steadied the next. You knew it. You lived it. You walked Dr. Li and Dr. Caldwell through the theoretical revisions first, explaining how you’d sharpened the central framing to better align with the archival materials. You explained your adjustments to the chapter outline, the restructured oral history placement, the careful rebalancing of the emotional arc against the political one. Dr. Caldwell nodded with genuine interest, tapping her pen occasionally as she underlined a note. Dr. Li followed along in her own annotated copy, occasionally murmuring “Good,” or “That’s clean,” as you moved from page to page.

You flipped to your methodology. “I revised the language around participant positioning,” you said, tracing the paragraph with your finger. “The earlier draft was too clinical. I wanted to preserve clarity without compromising warmth. They weren’t just subjects—they were storytellers. And I needed the text to honor that.”

Dr. Li looked up and met your gaze. “And it does.” You gave a small nod of gratitude and continued. One more page turned. Then another. Twenty minutes had passed as you were nearing the end of your papers

And then the door opened. Dr. Marcus stepped inside with a slow, casual gait—coffee cup in hand, blazer slung half-open over one shoulder. No apology. No nod. He simply walked to his seat at the far end of the table, set his things down with a controlled ease, and sat like the chair was owed to him. His expression was unreadable—but practiced. And the energy in the room shifted. He didn’t speak. Didn’t apologize or greet anyone. Didn’t make eye contact. Just sat. Like, this was an inconvenience. Like this wasn’t worth his morning, you inhaled once, slow and even, and turned toward him with a quiet professionalism that surprised even you. “Dr. Marcus,” you said, your voice steady, even. “Thank you for being here. I just wanted to offer my condolences again for your family’s loss.” His eyes flicked toward you. Something unreadable passed through them. He offered a slow, shallow nod. Not warm. Not even polite. Just… acknowledgment. Then he looked down at his copy of your dissertation, opened it to a seemingly random page, and said nothing. The room held its breath. And then, because you were still the one commanding the space, you turned back to your notes.

You turned back to your notes with composure that felt carved from stone. You continued walking through your final section, tracing how the cultural framing in your final chapter echoed back to the themes you’d established in the introduction. You spoke of memory, legacy, and the interplay of public history and personal testimony. Dr. Caldwell leaned forward as you turned the page. Her eyes, bright behind her glasses, tracked every word. “This section,” she said, gesturing to the paragraph in the final third of your manuscript, “the way you wove the oral histories into the broader historical analysis—it’s incredibly moving. And it’s rigorous.” She tapped the paper. “This isn’t just storytelling. It’s scholarship. You’ve done something that isn’t easy: you made the reader feel the weight of the archive without ever leaving your narrators behind.”

You swallowed, heat rising at the base of your throat—quiet, sharp pride. She smiled at you then, eyes crinkling. “And as a historian, I’ll say this plainly: this research matters. Not just for what it says, but for who gets to say it. This kind of work is just as much about hearing the truth as it is about preserving it.”

You nodded, your voice steadier now. “Thank you. That means more than I can say.”

Dr. Li marked something with her pen, then looked up. “When research is a passion,” she said softly, “you can see it in the work. You don’t have to say it aloud. It’s in every line. And it’s clear that you didn’t just want to complete this—you wanted to understand it. And make it live.”

You held her gaze. “I did,” you said. “I had to.”

She closed your folder gently. “And now that you’re standing here at the edge of it all—how does it feel?”

The question struck something deep. You looked down for a moment, then let out a slow breath. “It feels… surreal,” you said. “This dissertation has shaped the last several years of my life. There were times I didn’t think I’d finish it. Times I thought maybe I wasn’t built for academia after all. That I wasn’t worthy of telling these stories.” You glanced down at your belly, then back at them. “And now I’m sitting here, carrying our daughter who’s heard every chapter out loud—and I’m one step away from finishing.”

Dr. Caldwell smiled widely. “It’s a joy, isn’t it?”

You nodded. “It really is. I didn’t expect that. But it is.”

The air felt warm. Full. A rare and generous quiet settled over the room. Until it didn’t. Dr. Marcus cleared his throat. The sound sliced through the conversation like a knife across linen—deliberate, performative. The scrape of his chair echoed faintly as he leaned forward, fingers laced, his expression carefully blank in the way only practiced disdain can be. “While it’s always touching to see a student become emotionally invested in their own work,” he began, his voice oily-smooth, like he was offering praise but setting it on fire as he spoke, “I think it’s worth questioning whether such emotional attachment might cloud one’s academic lens. Especially when...” His gaze flicked toward your belly—quick, pointed, then gone. “...certain life choices complicate the notion of objectivity.” Your spine straightened. But he wasn’t finished. “There’s been discussion,” he went on, settling back like this was a routine matter. “About whether your focus has been... impaired. By the marriage. The pregnancy. The... incident earlier this year and prior.”

Your stomach clenched. He meant the fainting. The emergency room. The lecture you missed. He meant the moment your body gave out under the weight of everything you were carrying—and not one of them had blamed you for it. Until now. “Some of our students,” he continued, voice low and tight with false camaraderie, “would kill for the position you’re in. Remote access. Reduced hours. Departmental leniency. Frankly, I’m concerned about the precedent it sets.”

Dr. Caldwell bristled beside you, shoulders going square. Dr. Li’s mouth opened in a tight line. But you saw it. Marcus wasn’t making a mistake. He was baiting you. Your breath hitched. Heat flushed your chest, rising fast and hot into your throat. You felt the warning flicker behind your sternum—rage held carefully in the ribcage, like something sacred and dangerous. Dr. Li spoke. Her voice, when it came, was cool steel. “Dr. Marcus.” She didn’t raise it. She didn’t have to.

He turned his head slightly toward her, but didn’t blink. Didn’t stop. “I’m merely pointing out what others are too polite to say,” he said smoothly, still looking at her even as he motioned toward you. “That this dissertation cannot—and should not—be assessed in a vacuum of sympathy.” A beat. Then he looked directly at you. “We are here to evaluate the work. Not the narrative around it.” You inhaled. Once. Held it.

Your hand rested steady on your belly, even as your pulse pressed sharp against the inside of your wrist. Beneath your skin, your daughter shifted—slow and deliberate, a patient echo to the moment blooming around you. Like she knew. Like she was listening. Like she understood the shape of what was coming. When you spoke, your voice wasn’t loud. But it didn’t need to be. It was steady. Measured. Carved from something unyielding. “I’d like to respond.”

Dr. Caldwell shifted slightly in her seat, her brows lifting with restrained tension, but she didn’t speak. Dr. Li remained utterly still—watching you now with the precise silence of someone taking note. You turned your gaze toward Marcus. Calm. Direct. “Dr. Marcus,” you said evenly, not blinking, “are there any issues with the content of the research in front of you?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared. “Any factual inaccuracies? Weakness in methodology? Flawed sources? Gaps in analysis?” Still nothing. His eyes remained flat. Unreadable. The look of a man who believed silence made him powerful. You didn’t flinch. “Because if there are academic concerns to raise,” you continued, “I’m here for them. I’m not afraid of critique. But if your issue is with the body I live in, or the people who love me, then I’ll remind you—that’s not what’s on the table today.”

A pause stretched between you, thick and buzzing. He looked at you for another long moment—his mouth parted slightly, like he might speak. But no words followed. Not one. And that was your answer. You didn’t lower your gaze. Instead, you lifted your voice—not in volume, but in precision. The kind of tone that could strip varnish off old wood. “And frankly,” you said, voice cool as marble, “I find it deeply inappropriate that you would bring my personal life into this discussion—and worse, that you would attempt to use it as a weapon against me.”

Dr. Caldwell’s pen had gone still on the page. Dr. Li’s jaw had set. You didn’t stop. “This is a committee meeting. Not a morality test. My marriage is not on trial. My wives are not distractions.” You let the silence receive that. Let it fill with the heat behind your ribs. “Agatha and Rio are not barriers to my work. They are the reason it exists in the first place. Their support. Their brilliance. Their belief in me. They have shaped every chapter. Every draft. Every breath I had to pull from nothing to finish this.”

Your hand didn’t tremble when you placed it over your belly. “Just like this child has. They have not taken from the work.” You held your chin a little higher. “They’ve made it possible.”

Your voice dropped. Not in strength. In finality. A sentence so quiet it became unignorable. “And Dr. Marcus, let me be absolutely clear going forward. My wives and my daughter are not to be used as weapons to try and degrade or lessen what I’ve accomplished here. Not in this room. Not in your commentary. Not in rooms where we are absent. Not ever.”

You met his eyes. Not with heat. With precision. “My daughter is not yours to mention again.” A beat passed. Then another. The air itself seemed to still. No papers rustled. No pens tapped. Just the weight of your body, the power of your breath, and the truth of your voice.

“If I’m lucky,” you continued, “she’ll be born into a world where she never has to justify her presence in a room like this—or her family’s.” The sentence landed like a bell. You rested both hands on your belly now. Anchored. Grounded in every inch of who you were. “And I don’t need—nor have I ever asked for—your sympathy.” Your words turned sharp as polished glass. “I need this committee to evaluate the merit of my work.”

You held his gaze. Unflinching. “Which you are welcome to do—if you can manage to separate your discomfort from my success.”

Dr. Caldwell leaned forward first, her voice already rising in her throat—laced with something fierce and maternal, a protest forming in the space between clenched teeth and open justice. “Let’s be very clear—” she began, tone razor-sharp.

But Marcus spoke over her. Of course he did. “No one’s questioning your right to a family,” he said quickly, with the flattened calm of a man trying to twist the narrative back into something manageable. “I’m merely suggesting that when emotions run high, when... personal dynamics intersect with academic expectations—” He smiled, tight and insincere. “—it’s worth asking whether the field is being reshaped intentionally, or simply being... accommodated.” He held up a hand like he was being reasonable. “That’s all I meant.”

Your jaw flexed, but you didn’t speak. Because beneath your skin, your daughter surged. It wasn’t a kick this time. It was a roll. A stretch. A full-bodied press that moved from your ribcage down to your hip, her limbs shifting in protest like she was physically pushing back against the man across the table. Like she was trying to claw her way up and cuss him out. You smiled at the thought; she was going to be Rio through and through.

Your hand moved instinctively to your belly, rubbing slow, steady circles just beneath your ribs. Soothing her. Soothing yourself. But she didn’t stop. She rolled again, sharp this time, determined. A jab behind your navel that made your whole midsection tighten beneath your hand.

Dr. Li turned slowly toward Marcus, her expression flat with disbelief. “Dr. Marcus,” she said coolly, “I think we’ve heard quite enough.”

Her tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. Every syllable was clipped with authority, precise and unshakable. “You are not here to interpret the institution’s values. You’re here to evaluate scholarship. And if you can’t separate the two, you are free to recuse yourself from this committee.”

The room dropped into silence again—but this time, it was the kind that built walls around you. That protected. That braced. Your daughter kicked hard—one final shove beneath your palm, like she was punctuating Dr. Li’s sentence herself. You smiled. Just faintly. Rubbed another slow circle over the place she’d pressed. That’s my girl, you thought. Say it louder.

Dr. Li’s words still lingered in the air, sharp and definitive. Marcus didn’t move. Your hand was still on your belly, tracing soothing circles, your daughter pressing occasionally beneath your touch like punctuation. The silence wasn’t hostile now. It was held for you.

Dr. Caldwell turned next. Her eyes found yours first. And when she spoke, it was soft. Measured. “I’m sorry.”

The words landed like warmth after wind. She sat forward, her voice gaining strength as it turned. “Your work speaks for itself. Your research speaks for itself. You have never once needed to defend your right to be here. You are an exceptional student, and I do not want you leaving this room thinking you have ever had special treatment from anyone in this department. If anything, if I'm honest, we have been harder on you.”

Then, slowly, she turned toward Marcus. The softness in her features faded. “You were placed on this committee only because Dr. Evan had to step back for personal reasons. You have not been through this journey with her. You haven’t seen the drafts, the revisions, the nights she bled this work into existence. You didn’t see the countless classes she taught, the undergraduates she mentored, and the service she has done to this department.”

Her voice remained even. Controlled and cutting. “So no—you don’t get to arrive at the finish line and pretend you’ve run the race.”

Dr. Caldwell’s words settled around you like warmth returning to a room after a long winter. She turned once more toward Marcus, shook her head—not with fury, but with finality. A dismissal dressed in silk and steel.

Then she looked back at you. And this time, she smiled. Not politely. Not performatively. A real smile. Full. Quietly triumphant. Her hands folded gently in front of her, her voice shifting into something more measured. More intimate.

“As you know,” she said slowly, “we usually wait until after the final committee meeting to vote.” The sentence hung there, suspended in the stillness. A pause bloomed—thick with possibility. You felt your breath catch in your throat.

“But in your case,” she continued, her voice soft but shining, “the vote was already taken.” Your heart stuttered once, then thudded hard into your ribs. Your daughter kicked, sharp and sure beneath your hand, like she knew the words before you did.

You went still—so still your hand stopped moving in its slow circles. The room narrowed to the sound of your breath. The silence was reverent, heavy, holy. Dr. Caldwell’s smile deepened. “And if you’re up for it…” she said gently, “you can defend your dissertation in two weeks.”

Your mouth parted. No sound came. The world had tilted slightly, not violently, just enough to realign the stars. Two weeks. The finish line.

Then her voice softened again, a note of care threading through her warmth. “And if not,” she added, “we can push the defense back until after your daughter is born. This isn’t a race.” She didn’t look at your belly when she said it. She looked you in the eyes like she saw you. The scholar. The woman. The whole of who you were—nothing diminished. Dr. Li’s voice followed, smooth and steady. “Whatever works best for you,” she said. “We’ll make it work. We’re behind you.”

They meant it. You could feel it deep in your chest. In the way no one had asked you to prove your worth again. The emotion rose too quickly to catch. Not a sharp rush, but something deeper—like water rising behind a dam, steady and swelling, pressing upward with a pressure you couldn’t quite name. It filled the hollows of your throat, your chest, the place just behind your sternum where fear had once lived. But it didn’t fall. Not yet.

You held it. One breath. Then another. Slow. Measured. The kind of breath you’d taught yourself to take in the archive, under fluorescent lights, when your hands shook over old pages and you weren’t sure you belonged. The kind of breath you took when Agatha pressed her lips to your shoulder in the dark. The kind Rio coaxed from you when you swore you couldn’t write another line.

This breath was different. It didn’t brace you. It openedyou. You nodded. Once. Steady. Like a door being unlocked from within. “Two weeks is fine,” you said, your voice emerging low and clear, threaded through the stillness like silk dragged over stone. It didn’t shake. It didn’t ask.

Dr. Caldwell’s eyes softened instantly, the crinkle at their corners blooming like dawn light catching the surface of still water. Her smile deepened—not bright or showy, but something quieter. A joy that had waited. A pride that didn’t need permission. She looked at you like you had always been destined for this. She looked at you like she was memorizing the moment.

“You should invite whoever you’d like to your defense,” she said, her voice taking on that gentle timbre reserved for ceremony. “Spouses. Family. Friends. Anyone you want in the room to witness what you’ve built. This is yours.”

Your breath caught again. It hadn’t even occurred to you what it would look like. That you might get to fill that room not just with scholarship, but with love. That Agatha and Rio could sit beside each other in the front row. That your daughter, swollen and shifting beneath your ribs, would be there too—tucked into the fabric of your body, already part of the record. The thought landed like a bell ringing low in your chest.

Dr. Caldwell stood then, slowly, smoothing the front of her blouse with both hands. Her movements were graceful, unhurried—like she understood something sacred had just been declared, and she would not trample over it.

You followed carefully. One hand on the table, the other braced against your lower back, you rocked forward and rose, your weight shifting in two directions—your spine stretching upward, your center of gravity rooting down through the soles of your feet. You moved like someone who had built something inside and out. Your body had changed. Your voice had sharpened. Your presence had solidified.

And when you stood, you stood in full. Dr. Caldwell didn’t wait. She stepped around the table and pulled you into her arms. The hug was firm, grounded. No performance. No awkward half-pat. Just a true, quiet embrace—the kind given by someone who had watched you become yourself and was honored to witness the final breath of the becoming. “Congratulations,” she said, her voice low against your ear. “You’ve done it. There are no more edits. No more revisions. You’re almost there.”

Your eyes burned. Not from doubt. But from the unbearable lightness of being told: You’re done. You were enough all along. Her hands pressed gently against your back, one just above your hip, the other steady across your shoulder. When she pulled back, she gave you a look that made your throat tighten all over again. Pride. Full and simple. “You’re at the finish line now,” she said. “You can build the rest of it however you want. But just know—you’re not walking it alone.”

Dr. Caldwell stepped closer, her eyes still on you, not the manuscript. Not the chair you’d risen from. You. “And,” she said, her voice bright now, almost celebratory—like a bell pealing gently through fog, “if your little one decides to make an early appearance, we’ll work around whatever you and your family need.”

There was no hint of doubt in her tone—no patronizing edge. Just trust—rooted, resilient, and sure. She gestured gently toward your belly, not as a novelty, not as a curiosity, but with reverence. With recognition. Your shirt was stretched smooth across the round curve of your body, and beneath it, your daughter moved again. A slow, rolling stretch—her limbs extending as if to claim her space, not just within you, but in the room, in the story, in the legacy being written one breath at a time.

You let your hand drift across the place she’d pressed, warm and steady. She was not hiding. Not shrinking. She had always known this space was hers. Dr. Caldwell watched the motion, her gaze softening even further. “You did the work,” she said, voice low now, like a promise murmured beneath candlelight. “You made it. This…” She gestured gently around the room, to the table, to the papers still fanned on the table. “This is just the easy part.” Your eyes stung again, but not from exhaustion. This wasn’t grief. It wasn’t fight. It was the arrival.

The warmth still lingered on your skin from Dr. Caldwell’s embrace. The weight of her words—you made it—had settled somewhere beneath your collarbone, where your breath stretched longer and steadier now. You turned slightly, one hand still resting protectively across your belly. And that’s when you saw him. Dr. Marcus. Still seated. Still scrolling.

Dr. Marcus hadn’t moved during any of it. He hadn’t offered a word of acknowledgment, not when Dr. Caldwell praised your work, not when Dr. Li defended your presence, not even when you stood tall with your hands folded over the life inside you.

His phone sat cradled in his hand like it was the only thing in the room worth touching. His eyes were locked on the screen, jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin, colorless line. But now—now that the meeting was nearly done, now that the decision had been made without him—he stood. Slowly. Carefully. And his face was the color of rusted iron. But it wasn’t detachment you saw etched into his face. It was fury. Muted, but unmistakable.

His cheeks were mottled with a deep red flush—not from embarrassment. From disbelief. From the fact that his words had not been received like scripture. That the room had not folded around his bias. That you, of all people, had answered him with grace and fire and left him holding nothing. His phone disappeared into his pocket like a mask being slipped off. He squared his shoulders, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

You took a breath. Just one. And then—because you were still polite, still principled—you nodded once in his direction. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Marcus,” you said quietly. He looked up.

The phone disappeared into his pocket in one fluid movement, his posture shifting as he stood, straight-backed and stiff with resentment. He looked at you—finally looked at you—and something in his eyes flickered with disbelief. As if you’d just insulted him by pretending the meeting had been his to give or take.

He took a single step closer and looked you dead in the eye. “I stand by what I said.” The words landed like a slap. Not a scream. Not a shout. Just a clean, calculated cut. His voice was flat. Measured. Like a judgment written in permanent ink. You didn’t blink. But inside, something pulled taut. Then, like he couldn’t help himself—like the venom had been rotting his tongue and he needed to spit it before it curdled, “You’ve had more flexibility, more access, and more protection than any candidate I’ve seen.” Each word came like a brick through stained glass. “You married two faculty members and then expected the department not to notice.”

Your stomach tightened beneath your palm. He stepped closer again—not into your space, not enough to draw rebuke. But enough to loom. Enough to linger. “And now you’re here, being applauded for surviving a process you were never made to suffer. Defending a dissertation that’s only being praised because people are afraid to say what they really think.” You blinked. But you didn’t move. He lowered his voice then, like he thought he was being kind. “It must be nice,” he murmured, “to have people believe you by default. To have your words taken as gospel not because of their merit, but because of who you’re sleeping with and the story your body and that belly tells.”

That landed. The fire behind your eyes flared hard and fast, your vision blurring just for a second. Your daughter kicked at the exact same moment, a sharp press of protest under your ribs—as if even she refused to let those words go unpunished.

You swallowed hard. Pressed your hand firmly across her. He doesn’t get this. You would not cry. Not here. Not for him. He stared at you for another long moment—waiting, maybe, for you to snap. To crumble. To cry. You didn’t. You looked him in the eye. Not defiant. Not enraged. Just done. And when you said nothing, when you offered not a flicker of confirmation or apology, he turned and left without another word. The door clicked behind him.

You stood motionless. Hands firm. Heart pounding. Something hot and bright tightening in your chest. Dr. Caldwell didn’t speak. Dr. Li didn’t either. They didn’t need to. Because in that silence, you weren’t broken. You were still here. He had to walk away. You didn’t speak for a long moment. Dr. Li watched you carefully. Dr. Caldwell, too. But neither spoke. Neither pushed. The quiet stretched, not tense, not awkward, but respectful. As if they both understood something had torn loose beneath the surface, and it was taking every breath you had not to bleed in front of them.

You turned toward them at last. Gave a tight smile—too tight, the edges brittle. “I’m going to excuse myself for a moment,” you said quietly, smoothing your hand down the side of your belly. “Thank you both again. I hope you have a good rest of your day.”

Dr. Caldwell started to reach forward, her mouth parting like she might say something—stay, sit, breathe—but you were already moving. Each step toward the door felt slower, heavier. As if your body had waited until Marcus was gone to begin unraveling. The heat behind your eyes was sharp now. Not quite tears. Not yet. But close. So close. You reached the door. Pushed it open.

And there she was.

Rio.

Leaning against the wall like she'd been waiting there all morning, arms crossed over her chest, one boot kicked casually against the brick. Her curls framed her face like they always did—untamed, unapologetic. The sun from the high window caught in her curls, streaking them gold. Her whole expression was light—grinning, proud, radiant.

“Hey,” she said brightly, pushing off the wall. “There she is. You look like someone who just knocked it out of the park.”

Her grin widened. Until it didn’t. Because you hadn’t said a word, and you weren’t breathing the way you usually did—not fully, not freely. You stood in the doorway, hand still on the knob, lips parted, but your jaw was tight. Too tight. Your shoulders are drawn just a little too close together. And your eyes— She saw it immediately. The sheen there. The way you blinked just a second too long, like you were keeping something from spilling over. Her grin slipped away. Not completely. The moment your eyes met hers, something broke loose in your chest—tight and raw, not pain exactly, but the overwhelming pressure of finally being able to feel. You stepped into her space without answering. No fanfare. No declaration. “Hey.” Quieter now. “What happened?”

You shook your head, the movement small and choked. “I just—” Your voice cracked before it even found a shape. You tried again. “I need some air.” That was all you could manage.

Rio didn’t hesitate. Her arm slipped gently around your back, guiding you with quiet instinct as you turned away from the conference room. You both walked in step—her body a solid line beside you, warmth without demand. But after only a few steps down the hall, you slowed.

“Actually…” you murmured, voice still rough, “I think I just need a minute. Alone.” You glanced at her, eyes already glassy, and watched the understanding settle in her features like a tide rolling in.

She smiled. Not hurt. Not surprised. Just knowing. “Of course, honey. I’m” she said softly. Her hand squeezed your shoulder once, then dropped away. She watched you walk to the front doors—watched as your silhouette was swallowed up by the golden spill of morning light beyond the glass. You stepped outside. The sun hit you immediately—warm and full, the kind of light that didn’t ask anything of you. The breeze tugged softly at the hem of your shirt, your blazer open and swaying around you like wings. You moved slowly down the familiar stone path that wound through campus, one hand on your belly, your feet careful on the uneven brick—taking your mind back to years prior.

--------

Flashback

The math building always felt cold. Not just the mechanical breath of air conditioning that hissed from the grates overhead, but a kind of sterility embedded in the drywall, in the square tiled floors and the buzzing fluorescence that never quite reached the corners. The hallway stretched long and gray before you, quiet in the way institutional spaces always got in the late afternoon—emptied of their usual noise, but never silent. Not really. Something always lingered. Footsteps behind the walls. Distant printers churning. A door creaking open and closed.

You walked slower than usual. The paper in your hand was crumpled now, its edges softened by your fingers pressing into it. A returned quiz, marked B–, with a lazy red circle around a problem you were sure you’d solved correctly. At the bottom of the page, in slanted blue pen that tried and failed to look casual, were the words:

Let’s talk about how we can improve this. Come to my office hours when available. Your skin didn’t like the way we felt in that sentence. Now, with your bag heavy against your shoulder and the quiet pressing too close, those words echoed in your chest like a low drumbeat. Warning, warning, warning. Room 315.

The door stood half-open, propped wide with a fraying calculus textbook whose cracked spine had clearly endured years of the same routine. You paused. Listened. Then knocked anyway—softly. Because some part of you still believed in being polite, even when your gut whispered don’t go in.

“Come in,” he called. Too fast. Too eager. Like he’d been waiting.

You stepped inside. The office was cluttered in a way that was supposed to feel approachable—papers stacked like towers, dry-erase equations curling on whiteboards, diagrams tacked to the walls with thumbtacks that had started to rust. A dusty coffeemaker sputtered in the corner. The overhead light flickered once.

He sat behind the desk. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. Tie loosened. One button undone. It wasn’t the uniform of authority anymore—it was performance. Relaxed. Familiar. Like he wanted you to forget the power dynamics that hovered like a fourth wall in the room.

“Hey there,” he said, and smiled.

Your stomach turned. You didn’t return the expression. “I’m here about the note,” you said, keeping your voice as even as you could. You didn’t sit.

He gestured to the chair like he hadn’t noticed the tension in your spine. “Relax,” he said, a chuckle wrapped in those two syllables. “This isn’t anything serious.”

You hesitated. Then sat. Perched, really—on the edge of the seat like you were ready to leave at the first sign of movement. Your hands stayed in your lap, fingers twisted around each other like thread. “Your work’s been slipping,” he said, leaning back in his chair. The grin stayed. “And your last quiz... well, we both know it wasn’t your best.”

“I didn’t think the grade reflected what I—”

He cut you off, chuckling again. Like you were a student at a dinner party, not someone paying to be in the room. “Look, I get it,” he said. “Things get complicated. Life gets... distracting.”

Your back stiffened. “I’ve been doing the work,” you said. “I’ve met all the deadlines.”

“But have you,” he murmured, “really been present?”

There it was. A subtle shift. The suggestion disguised as concern. You didn’t answer. He leaned in. “There are... ways we can work this out,” he said. His voice dropped a register, smoothed out like he thought he was offering you something valuable. “Extra credit, of course. One-on-one instruction. Late office hours.”

His eyes dragged over your shirt. Down your arms. He wasn’t subtle. You stood. Immediately. “I’m not doing this,” you said. Your voice was sharp now. Not loud, but clear.

He didn’t flinch. Just leaned back, as if expecting the outburst. As if this was the dance. “I’m not suggesting anything inappropriate,” he said, hands raised in mock innocence. Then, after a pause too long to be innocent: “But I hear you’re open to... unorthodox relationships.”

The air in the room thinned. Your heart slammed against your ribs. The silence between you turned molten. You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. “People talk,” he said with a shrug. “Two faculty members. One student. It’s impressive, really. I mean... for them. Seductive. Powerful. You’d bend over backwards for them, right?” Your mouth opened. Closed. He smiled like it was a win. “Just imagine if the wrong person found out. If it ended up on the department’s radar. Or worse, on a student complaint board. You know how it looks.”

Your heart was a drum now. Your pulse echoed in your wrists, in your throat, in your knees. This wasn’t about you anymore. It was about them. Rio. Agatha. Their hands in yours. Their names in his mouth. You turned without another word. And walked out.

You didn’t take the elevator. You couldn’t stand the idea of waiting—doors closing, humming slowly through floors while your brain screamed.

So you took the stairs. One flight. Then another. You barely felt the railing under your hand, didn’t feel the sting in your palm from gripping it too tightly. All you could feel was the echo of his voice, slinking through the marrow of your spine like it had left a stain. Them. He’d said them like a challenge. Like a weapon. Like a dare.

The moment you stepped outside, the air hit you—wet and sharp and suddenly too loud. Cars, leaves, the slap of footsteps across the quad. You walked fast. You kept your head down and didn’t stop. Not even when your phone buzzed twice in your bag—messages you didn’t read. Your legs carried you on muscle memory, down streets you knew, up the path you’d traced a hundred times before.

When you pulled into the drive and walked up, your fingers fumbled with the key at the front door—missing the lock once, then again, then finally sliding it in on the third try with a forceful twist that rattled the knob. Home. Safe. But even that word felt slippery.

The door opened, and warmth hit you in a wave that nearly buckled your knees—not just the temperature, but the scent of tea and lemon balm steeping in the kitchen, the faint sound of music humming through the speakers, the creak of the floorboards you knew by heart. Inside, the house was quiet. Not silent but calm in that particular way that meant Agatha was home. The lights were low. The living room smelled faintly of worn pages, the way it always did after she lit one of the spell-scented candles she refused to call “ritualistic.”

You shut the door quietly. Pressed your back against it. Just for a second. Breathe.

“Hey, baby? That you?” Low. Curious. Anchored in that uncanny way she always had of sensing things before you ever said them.

You tried to respond. You couldn’t. The bag slid off your shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud, your body still standing in the doorway like it hadn’t yet gotten permission to come inside. You didn’t even close the door behind you. You just stood there. Cold and hot at once. Unmoving.

“Darling?”

Her voice reached you—muffled, concerned. She stepped around a moment later, Barefoot. In leggings and one of Rio’s oversized T-shirts that hung off her shoulder, a pen tucked behind her ear, a tea mug in one hand. The second she saw your face, she stopped. Her entire posture shifted—elegance sharpening into alertness. “Hey.” Her voice dropped, gentle but steady. “What happened?”

You tried to speak. Failed.

Her brow furrowed, and then she was moving—closing the distance in three strides, cupping your face in both hands. “You’re shaking. What’s wrong?” You didn’t say anything. Not with your mouth. Your eyes gave it away. The way they glassed, then darted, then dropped to the floor, your shoulders trembled with a breath you barely got down—

“I’m fine,” you whispered, though your body betrayed you. “I’m okay.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she said. Her thumbs brushed along your cheekbones. “Tell me what happened, my love,” she said softly. But there was steel in it. “Right now.”

She wrapped you in her arms. And the dam cracked.

It wasn’t a sob. Not yet. It was a single breath that collapsed out of your chest like it had been punched loose. You folded into her body with a weight that made her stagger back a half-step, one hand sliding up the back of your neck, the other gripping the middle of your spine like she could hold you together by force of will alone.

You shook your head. Your chest heaved once. “I didn’t do anything,” you whispered. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Agatha leaned back only enough to find your eyes, cupping the side of your face. Her other hand remained on your back. “Tell me what happened.”

So you did. Or tried to. The words wouldn’t come easily. You told her about the grade. The note. The office. The way he looked at you—the words. And when you said the part about unorthodox relationships, Agatha’s jaw locked tight enough you could see the pulse jump in her neck. Her breath came tight through her nose as she reached up to tuck your hair behind your ear. By the time you got to the part about the threat—about the idea that he could report you, that they could be hurt—her eyes had gone dark and wide with fury.

“He threatened you?”

“I think he thought it was clever. I told him no,” you whispered. “I left. I didn’t do anything wrong. But I just—I panicked, because what if—what if someone hears—if he makes something up—if he tries to file something—Agatha, it could hurt you both.”

“No.” She turned back to you immediately. “No. Don’t you dare blame yourself for that.”

“But if he says something—if he files something—I could ruin everything for you both.”

Agatha gripped your arms, firm but not unkind. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice low and shaking. “He is not going to ruin a single thing.”

“But if they find out—”

“We’re not doing this.” Her voice cracked like a whip—barely keeping it in check. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Do you understand me? You told him no. You walked away. That man cornered you, threatened you, and then tried to use your heart—our life—as leverage.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said into your hair, her mouth pressed to your temple. “You were targeted. You were harassed. And you came home. You are safe now. I swear it.”

Your eyes filled fast. You tried to blink it back, but it broke anyway. “I didn’t want to mess this up.” Agatha’s arms came around you, tight and warm. She buried her face in your hair and held you against her chest, breathing hard.

“You didn’t,” she whispered. “You couldn’t.”

“I don’t care what he thinks he knows,” she said. “I don’t care what threats he made. He doesn’t get to touch us. He doesn’t get to take this from you.”

You buried your face in her chest. “But he could ruin everything—”

“No. He couldn’t.” Her voice was iron now. “He doesn’t have that power, honey.”

Just then, the phone buzzed from the coffee table. Agatha reached for it with one hand, still holding you with the other. She didn’t check the screen. She just answered.

“Rio,” she said, her voice already carrying. On the screen: Rio’s face came into view—hotel background behind her, the reflection of her laptop screen casting pale light over her face and the curve of her cheekbone, her curls pulled back into a loose bun. Her eyes scanned Agatha’s face, then yours. She smiled instantly, then froze. Her voice went flat with concern. “What happened?”

Agatha told her. Short, but honest. Watched her expression shift with every sentence. She turned the screen so Rio could see both of you. That was enough. Rio’s entire face changed. Her spine straightened in her chair, the tension in her shoulders tightening like pulled wire. Then she stood.

“I’m coming home,” she said, already reaching for something offscreen.

“No,” you said, pushing gently off Agatha’s chest, sitting upright. “Babe, make your presentation first. It’s okay. I got this. We’ll handle everything in a few days when you’re home.”

“I’ll book a flight for tomorrow morning—”

“Rio.” You met her eyes. “You’ve worked so hard for this. We’ll still be here. I’m safe. Agatha’s here. It’s okay.”

Her jaw twitched. She didn’t respond right away. “Babe,” Agatha said gently. “We’ll handle everything when you’re home. Together.” Agatha leaned in, her voice steady. “I’ve got her. We’ve got this.”

But she didn’t argue again. “I’ll be on the first plane after I speak,” she said. “I mean it. I’ll be home by tomorrow evening.”

You nodded, and so did Agatha. Rio’s voice softened. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Agatha chimed in, smiling tightly. “We both do.”

Rio’s eyes flicked between you, then she nodded once, sharply. “Make sure she eats,” she told Agatha. “And drinks water. And rests. And you—” she added, looking at you, “let her take care of you. I mean it.

You gave a tired laugh. “I’ll try.”

Rio’s breath came out slow. Her shoulders dropped just enough to tell you she’d heard you. “You swear?”

You nodded. “I swear.”

Rio ran a hand down her face. Then smiled, just a little. “He’d better pray I’m not back before my flight. I have to run down for a stupid mixer, but I’ll call again before I go to sleep. I love you both.”

The call ended. You reached for Agatha’s hand. Her grip was strong. Not urgent, not possessive—just sure. The kind of certainty that anchored you, pulled you back into your body without having to say a word. You curled your fingers tighter into hers, needing that grounding more than you realized. The phone slipped gently from your other hand, screen darkening as it settled face-down on the table.

Agatha didn’t speak right away. She didn’t need to. She pulled you toward her with slow, deliberate steps, guiding you to the couch like she was walking you home. You went without resistance—your limbs heavy with adrenaline, your breath shaky, your chest aching from holding it all in.

When you sat, she didn’t perch on the other side or leave you to fold in on yourself. She joined you there, body close and warm, her arm slipping around your back as she coaxed you into her lap with a quiet, steady touch. You didn’t even realize you were crying again until you felt the way her thumb swept the tears from your cheek. “I’ve got you,” she murmured.

Your forehead came to rest against her collarbone. Her sweater was worn, soft from years of washing, and it smelled faintly of cedar and skin. Her chin dipped to your hair. You felt the weight of her cheek settle against the crown of your head, one arm around your shoulders, the other hand running long, slow strokes down the length of your spine.

Up. Down. Up again. Each pass slower than the last. Measured. Protective. Devoted. “I didn’t know where else to put it,” you said quietly. “It just kept building. I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want to make anything worse.”

“You didn’t make anything worse,” Agatha said, voice low and firm. “You did the bravest thing. You told the truth. You came home.”

Your eyes fluttered closed at the sound of that word—home. Her hand kept moving in those steady motions along your back, grounding you, drawing you down from the ledge you hadn’t realized you were still balancing on. “Do you want a shower?” she asked gently. “Or maybe just to lie down for a bit?”

You shook your head slowly, cheek still pressed to her chest. “No,” you whispered. “I just... I want to be held.” Agatha didn’t reply. She only tightened her arms around you. There was something in the silence that followed—thicker than peace, heavier than exhaustion. It was safety. Absolute and unshakable. You could feel it in the way she tucked her legs under yours, wrapped herself around you as if to shield every inch of you from the world outside this room. She would’ve sat there for hours, days, years if you needed it.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, voice catching just slightly in her throat. “You didn’t let him steal your voice. You’re not alone in this. You’re never alone. I’ll remind you every day for the rest of my life and the next if I have to.”

And for the first time all day, you believed it. At some point, the lines between the couch and the bed had blurred. You couldn’t remember when she’d moved you—whether it was while you were still awake or just after sleep finally pulled you under—but the moment you blinked open your eyes, you were warm and tucked into the comfort of home. The bedroom was quiet except for the soft hum of nighttime: the creak of old floorboards expanding with heat, the distant ticking of the hallway clock, the slow rhythm of someone breathing near you.

The sheets were tangled around your legs, your cheek pressed to the warmth of a cotton-clad thigh. Agatha sat upright against the headboard; her MacBook balanced on her knees. She hadn’t noticed you stirring yet—her brow was faintly furrowed in concentration; the glow of the screen painting shadows against the smooth lines of her face. She wore only one of her sleep shirts, loose around the neck and falling off one shoulder, the hem pooling high around her hips. Her long legs were bare and soft beneath your cheek.

The moonlight slanted through the window blinds, casting silver bars across the bed, the wall, her skin. And you just… watched her. Her movements were deliberate but soft, fingers brushing against the trackpad, one hand occasionally lifting to adjust her glasses or tuck a curl behind her ear. She looked breathtaking like this—utterly focused, completely at ease. Like every version of her you’d ever loved was sitting right there in that moment: the professor, the protector, the partner.

Your chest tightened with the kind of fullness that didn’t need a name. It was just there, pressing sweet and heavy behind your ribs. Agatha’s eyes flicked downward. And then she smiled. Slow. Sure. Gentle in that way that always made your pulse go quiet. “Hi, my love,” she said softly, reaching down to run her thumb across your cheek. You smiled before you even meant to. A breath slipped out as you turned your face into her touch, the tip of your nose grazing her skin. You stretched once, languid and loose, then slowly pulled yourself closer into her side. Your hand curled around her hip as you nuzzled in, breathing her in.

She moved her laptop without a word, placing it on the nightstand with a soft click. The glow of the screen vanished, and the moonlight took over completely. Her arms opened to you as if they always would, and you fit against her like you were made to be there. You noticed it then—she hadn’t bothered with pajama pants. Just her shirt. Just her. Warm and safe and absolutely yours. Agatha’s fingers slid into your hair, her touch so slow, so steady, it made your eyes close again. “You needed the rest,” she whispered. “I wasn’t going to move until you got it.”

You pressed a kiss to her thigh. “I’m glad you did.” Your voice was barely more than breath, but Agatha heard it. Felt it. The way your lips lingered just a second too long against her skin, the way your fingers softened against her hip like a promise. She didn’t say anything—not yet. Her hand threaded deeper into your hair, slow and idle, as if encouraging you to stay right where you were. To rest. To recover.

But that wasn’t what you needed now. You shifted, easing your weight onto one elbow. Your cheek brushed higher along her thigh. She was still warm from the laptop. Still half-illuminated by moonlight, her skin kissed with silver and shadow. The hem of her shirt had ridden up just enough for your eyes to follow the shape of her, soft and familiar, yet no less holy. You looked up. She was already watching you.

Her expression was unreadable at first—quiet, cautious. Not afraid but sensing the change in your breath. In the way your body moved now not out of need for comfort but for something else. Something older. More elemental. She held your gaze as your lips pressed higher, your hand sweeping up from her hip to rest over her belly. Your fingers curled there gently, like they knew the rhythm of her heartbeat from the outside in. Her voice was quiet when it came. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. Not rushed. Not fevered. Just sure. “I want to feel you,” you said, and your voice didn’t shake. “I need to remind my body... that you’re mine.” Her breath caught. Not with surprise—but with the gravity of what you said. With the truth of it. You watched her eyes soften, her lips part just slightly before she whispered, “Then take your time.”

She leaned back against the headboard, her thighs parting with ease, with trust, her hands bracing behind her. She didn’t guide you, didn’t move—not because she was uncertain but because she knew you didn’t need her to. She knew this wasn’t about performance. This was about presence. And when your mouth found her, it wasn’t a rush or a race. It was a return.

Your lips didn’t just arrive—they arrived with memory, with the steadiness of someone relearning a sacred place. You kissed her inner thigh first, slow and sure, the heat of your breath warming her already flushed skin. Her muscles fluttered beneath your mouth, a soft shiver rolling through her as your hands eased up to anchor against her hips. But you didn’t dive. Not yet. You moved deliberately, pressing a kiss just above her knee, then just beside the curve where her hip met her belly, not missing the tremble of her fingers as they flexed open over the bedsheets.

You let yourself rise then—not to leave, but to rise over her body like a tide returning to shore. Your mouth mapped her abdomen next, the soft slope of her belly, the faintest rise and fall of her breath under your lips. You kissed across the ribs just beneath her shirt, then higher still. You peeled her sleep shirt up inch by inch, not rushed, revealing skin like scripture. Agatha let you, her body pliant under your hands, the pads of your fingers grazing each inch you uncovered.

You paused when you reached the curve of her chest. Your eyes flicked up to hers—asking, not assuming. Her nod was almost imperceptible, but her hand sliding into your hair again told you everything. You bent forward and kissed the swell of her breast, reverent, slow. One, then the other. Your tongue traced the arc beneath, the taste of her warm and familiar, and when your mouth closed around her nipple, her back arched slightly—a sound breaking free from her throat that was part sigh, part invocation. Your name, murmured into the space between breaths.

You kissed her sternum next. Her clavicle. The base of her throat. And then her neck. That was where she came undone. You felt it in the way her breath caught—sharp and audible—when your lips dragged slowly along the column of her neck. You felt it in the way her thighs shifted, in the way her hand tightened in your hair, her breath stuttering out of her as you kissed the spot just below her jaw, then lower, over the pulse that beat rapid and furious beneath her skin.

You didn’t rush. You didn’t need to. Every part of her was yours, and she knew it. She welcomed it. Her skin was warm beneath your mouth, humming with the aftermath of safety and want. You weren’t rushing. You weren’t claiming. You were remembering. Each kiss mapped her back to you—proof that she was real, alive, here, yours.

When you kissed your way down again, her breath caught—not sharp, but quiet, like a held prayer. Your hand slid up, fingers spreading over her hip, anchoring her down. She tilted toward you instinctively, the whole line of her body surrendering into trust. You didn’t hesitate.

You parted her with your hands, slow and reverent, and your mouth followed. Tongue first—deep and deliberate, palms warm over skin that trembled beneath your touch. And when you leaned in—your mouth settling against her again—you didn’t just taste her. You claimed her. Slowly. Reverently. Like the body beneath your lips was the only map you'd ever need to follow home. She tasted like heat and want and the life you had built between the three of you. You stayed locked to her center, letting her ride your tongue, whine for it, writhe for it.

You licked into her with a pressure that made her moan immediately, the sound torn from her chest like something she'd been aching to release. She wasn’t composed. She didn’t need to be.

You wanted her messy. You worked her with your tongue in slow, possessive strokes—inside her, then out, then back again—savoring the way she trembled, the way her thighs began to twitch around you. And when her legs opened wider for you, offering herself entirely, your hands held her open, your tongue working her with reverent pressure. Not chasing climax but building it, like breath catching in a hymn.

You watched her the entire time. The way her lips parted. The way her eyelids fluttered, then dropped. The way her whole body stilled before the quake. Your tongue moved with purpose now, firm and steady, sliding into her with a pressure that made her breath catch. Her thighs flexed, then relaxed again, her body trying to keep up with the rhythm you gave her—each stroke deep, slow, and sure, until she was arching toward your mouth like a prayer trying to reach heaven. Her hands had fisted the sheets. That wouldn’t do. You lifted your head just long enough to whisper against the inside of her thigh, your voice low and raw. “Touch me.” Her eyes opened—barely. Glassy, dazed, already so close. Your free hand slid up her stomach, up past the hem of her shirt. You found her wrist, fingers trembling, and brought it down to your head.

“Hold me here,” you whispered. Your breath hot against her skin, your voice ragged with need. “Guide me. Remind me I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. Then louder, broken on a moan. “Mine.” Her hand threaded into your hair immediately, her grip like lightning—desperate, grounding, alive. Agatha moaned—God, she moaned—and her hand tightened more, not cruel, but commanding. Her hips rolled up instinctively as your tongue slipped into her again, deep and unrelenting, and the sound that tore from her chest was no longer soft. It was wild. Desperate. A whine drawn from somewhere sacred. “Yes—yes, that’s it—”

You moaned softly into her in response, and her hips bucked once, unrestrained. Her thighs clamped tighter around your shoulders, her body shaking with every pass of your tongue, every slow push into her. She started to chant your name then, broken and rhythmic and holy.

“Please,” she gasped, head falling back into the pillows. “Please don’t stop.”

You didn’t. Not for anything. You licked deeper, fuller, letting her ride the rhythm of your mouth as her voice came apart around your name. Every stroke sent another quake through her, her thighs trembling, her breath shattering into half-formed words—“Mine—don’t you ever—don’t you dare stop—”

You matched her rhythm. Matched the arc of her hips. Matched every rising note with your mouth as your hand slipped up to squeeze the swell of her breast through her shirt. She keened then—truly cried out, and her legs went tight, her whole body locking as her climax ripped through her like a fault line.

“Yes,” she gasped. “Fuck—yes, yes—”

The hand in your hair flexed and released again and again, her hips grinding forward with each stroke of your tongue, until the only thing anchoring her was you. Her thighs trembled around your ears. Her fingers fisted in your hair. And you didn’t stop until she collapsed—until her legs stopped shaking-until her breath came in stuttered gasps-until her fingers loosened in your hair and she whimpered your name like it was the only word left in her mouth.

When you finally pulled back, her chest was heaving, shirt stuck to her skin with sweat, her face flushed and vulnerable and so deeply yours.

You rose up slowly, kissing the inside of her knee, her hip, her stomach. You kissed her breasts again, her collarbone, her throat—laced her reverence between each touch—before finally reaching her mouth. Agatha kissed you like she needed to be stitched back together by the same hands that had undone her. She pulled you into her arms without hesitation, dragging you half on top of her, her limbs folding around you with the certainty of someone who’d never let go. Your head rested on her chest. Her heart beat against your cheek, slow and steady and home.

You pressed your lips to Agatha’s temple, her skin still warm, still damp with the afterglow of everything you’d poured into her. You held there for a moment, breathing her in. She smelled like sweat and lavender, like cotton sheets and something you’d always know as home. “I love you,” you whispered, barely a breath.

Agatha’s eyes fluttered open—half-lidded, soft, but certain. She looked at you like you were light she hadn’t realized she was missing until you shined on her again. She reached up, her fingers brushing your cheek, then the back of your neck, guiding you in for another kiss. Slow. Devotional. One that tasted like the truth. “I love you more than anything,” she whispered back, her voice ragged and full. “You, and Rio—you’re everything. I’d do anything to protect this. To protect you.”

Your eyes burned, but not from sorrow, just from the sheer weight of being seen. She kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips again. Then pulled you into her arms, chest to chest, tangle of limbs and heartbeat. And that’s how you fell asleep curled against her, your cheek over her heart, her arms wound tight around you like she’d never let go again.

Morning came slow. The sunlight crept through the curtains in long, golden ribbons. It pooled at the base of the bed, climbed the walls in soft streaks. You stirred first. The bed was warm, still wrapped in Agatha’s sleep-heavy form—her body curved instinctively around yours, even in rest. One of her hands rested over your stomach, fingers twitching now and then, as if dreaming of holding you tighter. You didn’t move. Not at first. Just watched the dust swirl in the morning light and listened to the creak of the floorboards—faint, distant. The front door clicked open. Keys clattered into the ceramic bowl by the entryway. Boots. You blinked, and a smile broke across your face. Rio.

She appeared in the doorway seconds later—jacket half-off, curls tamed into a bun, and a familiar smirk blooming when she saw the two of you wrapped together in bed. Agatha still hadn’t woken, her breath steady and slow. Rio crossed the room on quiet feet, bent down, and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Then her lips brushed yours—warm, lingering, welcome.

“Good morning, cariño,” she whispered, her voice low with travel and tenderness. She nodded toward the hallway. A silent question. You slipped from the bed carefully, following her into the soft light of the living room. There, waiting on the counter, was a coffee cup with your favorite order and a muffin, still warm in its wrapper. Your name scrawled on the side in her handwriting.

You’re home, you thought. I’m safe. She’d already changed—now in sweatpants and a tank, her shoulder muscles rolling easily beneath the fabric as she moved. She sat on the couch and opened her arms. You didn’t hesitate. You went to her. Let yourself be folded into that embrace like you were built for it. And maybe you were. She tucked you beneath her chin. Her hands rubbed gentle circles into your back. She kissed the top of your head, breathing you in. “I missed you,” she said, her voice just barely above a whisper. “I missed you so much.”

You smiled into her chest, heart steadying in the warmth of her skin. “You weren’t supposed to be home until tonight.”

Rio hummed low in her throat. You felt the vibration through her collarbone. “Switched panels with someone,” she murmured. “Took the closing slot after the mixer last night so I could come home this morning instead.”

She pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and her gaze held that same quiet fire—protective, grounding, sure. “I didn’t want to be away from ya’ll for another second.”

And there it was again—that ache that had nothing to do with pain. Just love. That fierce, relentless kind. You blinked hard, smile breaking wide as you leaned into her once more, whispering “Thank you,” against her neck.

She held you tighter. In that moment, the world outside—the ghosts, the fears, the men who thought power meant something—fell quiet. Because Rio had come home early. Because she chose you. Because Agatha was in your bed, warm and sleeping after last night. “He can’t scare us,” she said, her voice just barely above a whisper. “No one fucks with my girls.” And in her arms, with the taste of coffee still on your lips and the ache of everything softened by love, you knew without question: You were never alone.

End of Flashback

-------

Rio stood in the hall long after the door closed behind you, watching as you walked into the sunshine. She had seen your face. The smile you gave her had tried to land, but it never reached your eyes. And Rio knew what it meant when your smile didn’t rise like it used to—when your hands were too still, too deliberate, too quiet on your belly.

She turned slowly, her jaw already tightening, her breath coming shallow in her chest. Dr. Li was still standing inside the doorway of the conference room. She hadn’t left. Her hands were folded in front of her, notes tucked tightly beneath one elbow, posture formal—but her eyes weren’t clinical. They were watching. And beneath that stillness, there was something else.

Concern. Their eyes met. Dr. Li gave a small, subtle nod. Rio stepped closer. “What happened?” Her voice was low, tight. A slow coil wrapped in velvet. “I know that look. She came out holding something back.”

Dr. Li exhaled through her nose, slow and composed. But her shoulders dropped slightly. She turned back into the room, placed her notes on the table, and gave the smallest shake of her head before speaking. “Marcus.” Just the name. That was enough. Rio’s jaw locked instantly, the tendons in her neck drawing tight. Her fingers curled at her sides, once, then again—slow, deliberate, like they were warming up for something more dangerous than words. Something primal. “What did he say?”

Dr. Li’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Her gaze dropped for half a second, as if weighing what could be said, and what could never be unsaid. When she looked back up, the mask was gone. Her voice was still calm—but it had shed its academic polish. There was no posture left. No performance. Just truth. “He tried to turn the meeting against her.” Rio didn’t move. But her body did. Her entire posture shifted—shoulders rolling back, chest lifting, spine straightening like a steel rod drawn through fire. The change was subtle, but total. She was still Rio—composed, grounded—but now something ancient had lit beneath her skin. Not flame. Fury. Her breath shortened. Not from shock. From control.

“He questioned her credibility,” Dr. Li went on, steady. “Suggested that the accommodations she received were favoritism. That her work is only being praised because the department is afraid to be critical” Her jaw clenched hard. Her fists, already curled, pressed tighter against her sides. Still. Contained. But barely. She inhaled once through her nose, sharp and deep, like dragging oxygen through a closing throat. Then her voice came low—rough at the edges, her words a careful effort not to break something open.

“Did he bring up us being married?” Not your marriage. Not the marriage. Not Agatha and Rio. Us. She didn’t need to specify who.

Dr. Li nodded once. “Yes.”

That word hit like a stone to the ribs. But Rio didn’t look away. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, jaw ticking again as she took another breath—this one slower, heavier, full of the effort it took to keep her voice even. “Did he say something about the pregnancy?” Rio said it like a shield. Like a name.

Dr. Li hesitated. Her lips parted—but no words came immediately. Not because she didn’t know what to say. Because she did, finally, she gave a quiet, pained nod. “Yes.” Her voice was soft. Careful. “He used it as part of his argument. As proof, she’d been granted leniency because of her pregnancy and being married to the two of you.”

Rio turned her head slightly. Not to dismiss. To breathe. To contain. Her hands ached with the restraint. Her chest pulsed with it. She felt the weight of every woman who’d ever had her work minimized, every scholar who had ever been measured against the shape of her body rather than the breadth of her mind. And he’d done it to you. To her wife. To the mother of her child. “Rio,” she said quietly, “he brought up all of it.”

Rio blinked once. Her breath shortened. Not from shock. From control. From the effort it took not to react immediately. The hallway around her seemed to narrow. The walls, the floor, the edges of light spilling across the tile—none of it felt neutral anymore. It all pressed inward. Her vision tunneled slightly, not from panic, but from the concentration it took not to let the fury crack her open. Her fists curled tighter. Not trembling. Just tight. Hard.

Fury held still. “And you let her deal with him alone?”

Dr. Li didn’t step back. Didn’t bristle. She stepped forward. Not much. Half a step. But it was enough to signal this wasn’t protocol anymore. This wasn’t faculty decorum. This was a reckoning. Her eyes, when they met Rio’s, held something weightier than explanation. Something heavier than guilt. “For the record,” she said, her voice low and certain, “I hope you and Agatha know that Ally and I would have let her be spoken to like that in front of us. We cut him off at one point and told him he was inappropriate.” The words held firm—iron wrapped in velvet. “Before we could cut him off, she asked to speak for herself and didn’t want us to interrupt.” Dr. Li glanced at the door, then back at Rio. “And when she did respond…” Her voice softened just slightly. “She did it with more professionalism and clarity than I’ve seen from faculty twice her age, let alone someone at the end of their PhD journey. She didn’t walk out defeated, Rio.” Her voice dropped lower. “She walked out with the last word. He underestimated her. She dismantled him. On her own terms.”

That should’ve cooled Rio’s rage. It didn’t. Beneath her skin, something ancient stirred. Not rage born of ego, but of protection. Of blood memory. Of standing in rooms where the people you love were made small and having to swallow it because the moment calls for composure, not retaliation. The words hung in her chest like stones. She could see you in her mind—how you must have sat there. One hand on your belly. That’s still a deliberate strength in your voice. The way your breath hitches when you’re hurt but trying not to show it. How your eyes go glassy before the first tear dares to fall.

She hadn’t been there. But her body knew. Her breath was coming slower now, but deeper—each inhale trying to dig up the restraint she was rapidly losing. Her shoulders rose slightly with each one, like a warning drawn in silence. She looked past Dr. Li—past her quiet, measured expression. Past the door you had disappeared through. To the sunlight spilling across the floor like an invitation.

That light didn’t feel warm anymore. It felt like distance. And it made her burn. Her stomach turned with the uselessness of it. The fact that you had to sit through that alone. That he had spoken like that in the open, unafraid, as if he were entitled to say it and still walk out clean. Rio’s jaw shifted. Her body was locked tight with restraint. Every breath was a negotiation between fury and focus. Her spine felt too rigid for the hallway it stood in, her limbs thrumming with the quiet ache of unreleased action. But it wasn’t panic. It wasn’t indecision.

It was discipline—the kind forged in fire, in grief, in history. Still, her eyes scanned instinctively—past the closed door, toward the light where you had gone. Toward the space where pain had been delivered, and she hadn’t been there to catch it. She didn’t know how far the damage had reached. Only that it had touched you. And that was enough. Dr. Li’s voice broke the silence. Not loud. But sharp enough to sever. “Be careful around Marcus, all three of you” She didn’t say it like a warning. She said it like a truth she hated having to speak aloud.

Rio turned her head slowly, her jaw tight, her breath still shallow in her chest. “Why?” she asked, the word low and frayed, cut from the back of her throat. Not accusatory. Not afraid. Hopeful. Hopeful that maybe—just maybe—Dr. Li knew something. Something explainable. Something containable. Her voice dropped further. “Erin, do you know something?” She looked away. Not to deflect, but to gather. To weigh the cost of what she was about to say.

When her gaze returned to Rio, it was unflinching. And it had shed the last of its neutrality. “Whatever his issue is with her…” Her voice was softer now. Tighter. “It’s not professional. It’s not philosophical. Not academic dislike” She held Rio’s eyes. “It’s personal.”The words didn’t just land. They rooted. A silence bloomed, dense and electric. Rio nodded once. Slow. Controlled. But the movement carried the gravity of a vow. She didn’t need to speak. The promise was in her posture. In the stillness of her hands. In the cold precision of her breath. In the way her body had stopped shaking, because now she was sure.

“Then he’s not just a problem.” Rio looked Dr. Li in the eye. “He’s a threat.” Dr. Li reached out, one hand rising gently to rest on Rio’s shoulder. It wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t dismissal. It was something older. Older than faculty alliances. Older than universities. Older than the kind of power Marcus thought he had. It was recognition and something closer to allegiance. “Take care of her.” A pause. “The kind of harm men like that do... it doesn’t always leave bruises.”

Rio nodded, slow and sure. She let Dr. Li’s words wash over her, breathed once, then again deep and controlled, trying to steady the storm that had already started rising behind her ribs. But her silence wasn’t stillness, it was strategy. Her fingers lingered for just a moment longer on Rio’s shoulder before she stepped back. Her eyes were softer now, though the concern hadn’t left them. It lived beneath the surface like something coiled, watchful, ready. “I’m here,” she said gently. “For all of you. Whatever you need.”

There was no need to ask what that meant. Rio heard the truth in the tone, felt it in the pressure of that final touch. Then Dr. Li turned. Her heels made no sound against the floor, but somehow her presence still felt heavy in her absence, like the weight of someone who had stood between fire and the people she chose to protect. For a moment, Rio was alone again in the hush of the hallway. The silence pressed against her chest like hands. Her fingers flexed at her side once more, trying to shake off the residue of what had been said—what had not been said—and what still needed to be reckoned with.

The door behind her creaked open. Her head turned. And there you were. You stepped back into the building, the sun still chasing the outline of your figure. Your eyes were red—but not raw. You’d cried, yes, but not broken. The line of your mouth held steady. Your shoulders didn’t slump. You looked weathered. But intact. Like someone who had walked through fire and found herself still whole on the other side. There was something in your smile that cracked something open in Rio’s chest. It was soft. Tired. But earned. Not the kind of smile that asked for anything. The kind that said: I’m still fucking standing.

Your steps were slow but grounded, your hand cupped protectively beneath your belly as if your daughter were a star you carried inside your ribs. Each footfall whispered its own small story of survival. Dr. Li turned at the sound and offered you a quiet wave, nothing performative. Just a small gesture of acknowledgment. Of respect. Then she slipped away down the corridor, her silhouette receding toward the light.

You stopped in front of Rio. Your eyes met hers. That was all it took. She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to. Your breath came out on a soft exhale, like a balloon being untied. The look in your eyes—soft, tired, a little dazed around the edges carried the unspoken ache of everything the day had pressed into your body. And Rio, who had been holding herself taut for hours, finally let her arms open. Wide. Sure. Without hesitation. You stepped into her, the swell of your belly catching first between you, but Rio adjusted without pause, her body shifting instinctively to make room. One arm wrapped low, beneath the curve of your back, her hand spanning the space just above your hips. The other curled around your upper shoulders, pulling you in, holding you close.

Your forehead dropped to her collarbone. You didn’t cry. Not anymore. But you exhaled into her like it was the first full breath you’d taken all day. Rio’s hands squeezed gently, anchoring you. She pressed a kiss into your temple, her fingers moving in slow circles down your back, as if to soothe the tension there, not just from your spine, but from your memory. After a moment, you stepped back, just slightly. Enough to meet her eyes. She scanned your face immediately, her gaze sharp but tender, searching for anything you hadn’t said. Her thumb moved instinctively to brush the line beneath your eye. “Any more classes today?” you asked softly, your voice still hoarse with the weight of the morning.

You smiled—small, tired, but real. A smile pulled not from ease, but from love. Your hand drifted down to your belly, rubbing in those familiar, slow circles. The kind you did when the baby was restless. When your body ached. When you needed to remember that she was with you. Always. “If Agatha doesn’t have class either,” you murmured, “I’d really like to go home. Just… be with you both.” The admission left your mouth like a thread pulled loose.

Home. Not a place. Them. Your eyes fluttered for a moment, heavy from the weight of the morning. “I’m exhausted,” you said, laughing under your breath, “and my feet hurt.” It came out like a confession. That soft barley there giggle, frayed around the edges but still genuine, was enough to light Rio’s entire face. Her smile stretched wide, then softened again into something quieter, more reverent.

She leaned in and kissed the side of your head, lips lingering just above your temple. Her voice dropped to a murmur, right into your hair. “You carried the whole damn morning. Of course, your feet hurt.” You nodded faintly, your body leaning into hers without thinking, your spine relaxing just slightly. “The meeting excitement’s just been…” You started, then let the words drift. “…too much.”

Rio’s eyes didn’t leave your face. Not for a second. But the hand closest to you rose—gentle, instinctive, and sure—and came to rest just beneath your elbow. Her palm fit there perfectly, like it had always belonged. And in that touch, there was no rush. No demand. Just a promise. You are safe. You are seen. I’ve got you now.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Let’s get you home.” Her fingers slipped between yours—familiar, grounding, warm. Her touch wasn’t just comfort. It was orientation. Like holding a compass, and with her other hand, she was already moving. Not to her pocket. Not to text.

She brought her phone to her ear with practiced ease, even as she shifted subtly toward you, shielding you from the hallway, from the day, from anything that didn’t belong. Her hand in yours never faltered. “Hey,” she said into the phone, her voice low, steady, “come meet us downstairs. She’s ready to go.” She didn’t say your name. She didn’t have to. Because the person on the other end—the one already waiting to hold you—already knew exactly who she meant.

Rio lowered the phone slowly, the final words still warm in the space between you. Her hand never left yours. Her thumb moved gently across the back of your knuckles, tracing the smallest circles—barely pressure, just presence.

The air around you had stilled. Not the quiet of tension. The quiet after. You leaned slightly into Rio’s shoulder, the exhaustion beginning to settle into your bones now that the adrenaline was thinning from your blood. Your feet throbbed in your shoes. Your lower back ached in a dull, steady rhythm. The place just beneath your sternum was tight with the effort of holding in more than one kind of weight. It had been maybe two minutes. Three at most. And then you heard it. The sound of boots you would’ve recognized anywhere—measured, sure, deliberate. A stride that always meant something was coming, and it was coming with purpose. Agatha. Her steps echoed down the marble corridor—heels rhythmic against the tile, coat trailing faintly behind her like smoke. She came into view just as you turned, the light behind her catching on the silver strands threaded through her dark hair, the corners of her coat flaring slightly as she moved. She wasn’t rushing. But she wasn’t taking her time, either. And the second she saw your face—your red-rimmed eyes, your too-tight smile—her whole expression shifted. Gone was the usual sharpness she wore for campus. In its place bloomed something pure and raw: love, stretched thin by distance. She didn’t wait for you to move. She came straight to you. The hug was immediate, clumsy, perfect.

Your belly made the embrace awkward—your daughter wedged confidently between you—but Agatha shifted without hesitation. Her arms wrapped around your shoulders, her hands sliding high to cradle the back of your neck, her body curving just enough to press close without pressure. She kissed your temple. Your cheek. Your hairline. Each touch grounding. You sank into her, your cheek against the warmth of her collar, her scent wrapping around you like home—spiced cedar, citrus, the faintest trace of her rose salve. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

Behind you, Rio shifted closer, her presence still solid at your back. Agatha’s eyes lifted to meet hers over your shoulder. And in that glance—a flicker of something sharp passed between them. The question was there. Is she okay? Rio answered with a subtle shake of her head.

Not here. Agatha stilled. She exhaled through her nose, slow and steady. Then she tightened her hold—not urgently, but with intent. Like she could borrow a piece of your pain just by holding it closer. When she finally pulled back, it was only enough to look at you—her hands still on your arms, her eyes searching your face. You sniffed once, blinking hard, the sting behind your eyes finally beginning to ebb. Then your hand moved to your belly, tracing slow, familiar circles over the place your daughter had claimed as her personal arena. “Your daughter’s been practicing for Fight Club,” you muttered, your voice thin but steady. “I’m pretty sure she’s winning.”

Agatha’s lips curved—just slightly at first. Sad. Soft. Genuine. Then the smile deepened as she leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered longer than usual. “Of course she is,” she whispered, her breath warm against your skin. “She’s Rio’s.”

You let out a small, crooked laugh. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. “I had that thought halfway through the meeting,” you said, eyes fluttering shut for a second as your hand rubbed over another subtle roll beneath your skin. “Right around the time she started throwing elbows under my ribs.”

Agatha chuckled, her forehead resting briefly against yours. “That’s my girl. She’s going to come out ready to square up,” Rio added from your side, her voice warm, teasing, protective. “Hope the world’s ready.” Rio’s hand slipped more firmly into yours. And for the first time since you walked into that committee room, you felt your body start to come down. Not collapse. But release. The worst was over. And your wives were here.

------

The door clicked shut behind you with the soft finality of safety. Home. You didn’t speak as you walked in—just let the weight of the day begin to slide off your shoulders, quiet and slow, like shedding soaked clothes. The hallway smelled like lemon balm and whatever candle Agatha had left burning this morning, still faintly sweet beneath the cooler spring air that had trailed in with your footsteps.

Your shoes came off first—eased carefully from swollen feet. You stepped out of them with a sigh, your breath catching on the exhale like it had been waiting hours for permission. You padded barefoot down the hall, fingers already tugging gently at your clothes, needing comfort. Not softness exactly. Familiarity.

In the bedroom, light streamed through the blinds in angled stripes across the quilt. Your hands moved without thinking, pulling off the stiffness of the day, exchanging it for something that had always meant home more than the walls ever could. A pair of Rio’s boxers, worn low around the swell of your belly, and one of Agatha’s old college shirts, stretched tight across your middle, hugging every curve of the daughter growing inside you. It didn’t quite cover the bottom curve of your stomach. You didn’t care. It showed your body. Your work.And today, you needed to be seen.

You heard the soft clatter of their bags being set down—keys landing in the bowl, shoes kicked off near the door, the shuffling sound of Rio’s jacket being shrugged off, and Agatha’s footsteps down the hall to the office. You picked up one of Agatha’s hoodies from the foot of the bed—just in case the chill found you—and stepped into the hall. Your hand was on your belly. The other held the hoodie draped across your arm. They were both in the living room when you came around the corner. Agatha turned first, eyes falling to your stomach, then rising slowly to your face. Rio glanced over her shoulder at the same time, mouth already curling into that warm, irreverent smile that always made you feel like you were hers long before she ever said the words.

You walked up to them and kissed them both. No words. Just the press of your mouth to Rio’s, then Agatha’s. A grounding. A claim. A need. Then you stepped back a little, your voice softer than it had been all day. “I’m going to the couch.”

They didn’t answer. They just followed. You stretched out across the cushions slowly, adjusting the hoodie to the side of the couch and grabbing a pillow for your head. Agatha settled at your feet immediately, lifting one gently into her lap, her thumb moving in slow, sure circles over your arch. Your feet were swollen, throbbing, and tight—but she worked with the kind of pressure that said she knew your body, even in this new form. Rio dropped onto the other end of the couch, adjusting your pillow as her hand moved straight to your hair, brushing her fingers through the strands, slow and rhythmic, until your shoulders stopped holding so much tension.

Your eyes fluttered closed. Then, after a beat, you exhaled and said it like it was nothing. “I’m defending in two weeks.” You let the silence stretch for half a heartbeat longer. Then you opened your eyes and smiled—wide and real. The kind of smile that didn’t ask for permission. It landed exactly the way you hoped it would, like a spark dropped into dry kindling. The reaction was immediate. Agatha froze—hands still cupping your feet—and blinked hard, as if her brain had to catch up with her heart. Then her whole body softened, all at once, like tension draining from a wire pulled too tight for too long. Her eyes gleamed.

Rio let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh, and fully reverent. Then both of them moved. Agatha leaned forward first, sliding her palms up your legs until she could brace them over your knees, her fingers tightening slightly. “Oh, my love,” she breathed, her voice shaking with pride. “You did it. You’re here.”

“You’re almost done,” Rio added, her voice low, awed. She shifted closer, one hand brushing gently along your cheek, the other slipping behind your head to cradle it. “Two weeks. Baby, that’s—God, that’s amazing.”

You laughed—a bright, breathy sound that broke through the afternoon like sunlight through clouds. Agatha leaned in and kissed your shin, then the inside of your knee, her hands still wrapped firmly around your legs like they were the most precious things she’d ever touched. “You’ve been climbing this mountain for so long,” she said softly, “and now you can see the summit.”

Rio’s hand had stilled in your hair, but now it moved, cupping the side of your face, her fingers slipping back behind your ear. When she spoke, it was low. Steady. “You worked so hard for this.” She leaned in until her forehead pressed to yours. “No shortcuts. No favors. Just grit. Just fire.”

Agatha scooted closer until she could reach you fully—one hand at your calf, the other brushing up your thigh to rest on your belly, like she needed to touch all of you. To feel that this was real. “And you didn’t lose yourself along the way,” Rio added, her voice soft and low. “You brought all of yourself. Your voice, your story, your fire. And that baby girl’s gonna be born to a doctor.”

That was the line that cracked it. The tears started before you even knew they were coming. No heaving, no gasping—just the quiet release of something too long clenched in your chest. The kind of crying that doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t ask for attention. It simply arrives. Your breath caught, shallow. Then hitched again. You buried your face in Rio’s lap, her thigh warm beneath your cheek, the fabric of her leggings soft where your fingertips curled in. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to shush you.

She just leaned down, one arm coming around the back of your head, cradling you to her like the fragile weight of a dream. Agatha shifted instantly, her hands moving back to your legs, stroking up and down the length of them with slow, even pressure, her thumbs brushing gentle circles into your calves. She didn’t speak either. Just kept her touch steady, her body angled toward you like gravity itself had tipped in your direction.

The room was quiet. But the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of love, of rage, of everything you hadn’t been able to let out while sitting in that stiff-backed chair, holding yourself together through words that had sliced like glass.

You weren’t sobbing. You were remembering what he’d said. The way it lingered. The way you’d stood anyway. Agatha reached up to rest one hand on your hip, grounding you as your shoulders trembled once. Just once. And that was all it took. Rio looked up at Agatha, her mouth tense, her jaw tight with the things she wanted to say but wouldn’t—not yet. Agatha met her eyes, then turned her gaze back to you. Her voice was gentle when it came. “Do you want to talk about it?” Not pressed. Not forced. Just offered. Like a hand outstretched in the dark.

You didn’t answer her right away. The question, so simple, so gently given, just sat between you, unhurried. Agatha’s hand was still on your hip, steady and warm. Her other hand continued tracing long lines up your legs, rhythmic and slow, as if she were working emotion from your body, as if it were muscle. Rio’s fingers threaded into your hair again, lightly scratching your scalp, her palm curving around the back of your head like she could shield it from anything still lingering.

You let yourself stay there. Cradled. Not asked to move, not expected to explain. Just allowed. You took a breath—your first deep one since being home. The kind that filled your lungs, not just the top of your chest. You let it out slowly, your cheek still resting in the dip of Rio’s thigh. The weight didn’t leave your body. But it stopped fighting you. You closed your eyes again, pressing your lips together, grounding yourself in the smell of the couch, the soft hum of the house, the thrum of your daughter shifting under your skin.

Another breath. Steadier this time. Agatha’s thumb drew soft circles along the bone of your ankle. Rio leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You sat curled between them—your body still pressed into the warmth Rio had left behind on the couch, her thigh having been flush against yours. Agatha’s hand was on your shin, steady, while Rio’s arm remained draped across the back of the cushions, ready to pull you in closer if you faltered. But you hadn’t. Not yet.

You’d walked them through the meeting in slow, deliberate beats. The highs. The lows. The grace you’d been met with at first—Dr. Li’s arms around you, Dr. Caldwell’s eyes softening when she read your edits aloud. You told them how proud you had felt. How present. How real. And then, you spoke about Marcus. How he arrived late. How his presence changed the air in the room. The weight of him. The tension that followed. You told them how his words had landed like slaps, how each syllable seemed calculated to wound, not critique. You told them how it had taken everything in you to keep your cool, to speak without breaking, to draw a line without screaming. You told them the part that had burned more than the rest: when you looked him in the eye and said—their names were not to be spoken in rooms where we were not present. Not as tools. Not as leverage. Not as shadows he could twist. And then, your voice had hardened. Not loud, but final. He was never to mention your daughter again. They listened in silence. Not because they weren’t feeling it, but because they were—entirely. You could see it in the clench of Agatha’s jaw. The way Rio’s fingers flexed just behind your shoulder.

Then your voice returned. Soft, but deliberate. “And that now,” you said, “I was being applauded not because the work was strong, but because people were afraid to say what they really thought.”

You took another breath. “Then…” You didn’t look at either of them. “He said it must be nice having people believe me. Having my words taken as gospel. Not because I should be believed but because of who I was sleeping with.”

Your eyes closed. “And the curve of my belly.” Silence. It filled the room like smoke. Thick. Consuming. Your voice dropped to barely a whisper. “He said people believe the story my body tells. Not the one I wrote.” You swallowed. “And then he walked out.”

You hadn’t realized you were gripping the cushion until you felt the fabric bunched under your fingertips, the tension in your hand screaming louder than your throat ever could. But still, you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Not yet.

Rio stood slowly, but the tension in her shoulders was immediate—visible in the rigid way she set her jaw, the flex of her fingers as they curled into fists, then uncurled again like she didn’t trust herself with them. Agatha watched her rise. Her lips parted, her hand still holding yours, but her eyes never left your face. Her other hand rested gently over your knee, firm and steady, the weight of it grounding you as your breath threatened to falter.

Rio didn’t speak at first. She paced. One slow, deliberate step across the rug, then another. Her movements were taut with rage, like she was trying to burn it off before it broke open. Then she turned sharply. “He brought up my daughter.”

Her voice was low, incredulous, like saying it aloud helped her comprehend the magnitude of the violation. “Our daughter. Like she’s some footnote in his power play. Like she’s some goddamn liability.”

She looked at you—not like she doubted what you said, but like she couldn’t believe someone had dared put that in your lap. Alone. Agatha’s grip on your leg tightened. “He brought up your pregnancy to your face, in that room, in front of your committee, like it was a flaw.” Her voice dropped. It was quieter, but no less dangerous. “He talked about our marriage. Like it disqualifies your work. Like we’re some stain he gets to wipe off the record.”

You felt the tears again, less from grief, more from the fury in their voices echoing what you hadn’t let yourself say. Rio came back around now, dropping to her knees beside you. Her hands found yours again, folding over them tightly. “He stood across from you and used our family to try and cut you down.” She shook her head, her voice trembling now with rage she couldn’t swallow. “You’re the one who carried this—this research, this body, this child. And he thinks he gets to speak on anything about who you are?”

Agatha didn’t move for a moment after you spoke. But everything in her shifted. There was no fire in her voice. No shouting. Just a sudden, unmistakable stillness—the kind that comes before the sky opens, before something ancient answers back. She looked down once, her thumb brushing over the curve of your knee like she was steadying herself.

Then she lifted her head. Her gaze snapped to Rio, then to you, and when she finally spoke, her voice was velvet-wrapped iron. “He spoke to you like that?” Not a question. A judgment. She sat up straighter, eyes narrowing as the last of your story settled into the room like smoke.

“He walked into that room, late, uninvolved, and had the audacity to question not just your scholarship, but your integrity? Your motherhood? He thought he could still position himself as judge and jury over a process he barely even participated in?” She exhaled. And smiled. But it wasn’t kind. “That’s not ego. That’s delusion.”

Rio stayed where she was, but her eyes flicked upward, watching Agatha now too, like even she was bracing for what was coming. Agatha turned fully to you. “The audacity,” she said, “of any man thinking he can speak to any student—let alone a woman—let alone my wife that way.”

The space between each phrase came like the cocking of a loaded weapon. “You are carrying life. You are carrying work that will outlive all of us. You stood in that room with more grace than I would’ve had in your place—and he had the gall to mention your pregnancy like it was leverage?”

She rose from the couch—slow, controlled, not to leave, but to move. To stalk. To claim space. Her hands moved to her hips, eyes flashing. “The fact that he felt entitled to look at you, at my wife, eight months pregnant, defending the kind of work he could never even fucking dream of producing—and reduce it to pillow talk and ‘departmental sympathy’? That’s not just academic malpractice. That’s violence. And I hope to God he knows what he’s started.”

Rio stood too, slower this time, and came to sit next to your side, pressing her body close again in case you needed to lean. Her jaw was locked, her hand warm over your shoulder. But Agatha wasn’t done. “He thinks because he holds a title, because he’s written a few things no one remembers, that he can speak about you—about us—with authority?”

She laughed once. It wasn’t kind. “He doesn’t know the history. He hasn’t earned the breath to say your name. And he sure as hell doesn’t get to speak about the child we are bringing into this world like she’s some kind of political complication.”

You felt that one deep. It wasn’t just righteous anymore. It was personal. Agatha took a step forward. Just one. But you felt it like a quake through the floorboards—like the world had just been given warning. Her voice dipped low, steady as stone grinding against stone. And when she said it, when the word left her mouth, it was not soft. “My daughter,” she said.

And something changed. You felt it first in your chest. Then in your ribs. Then in the space just behind your eyes, like a current awakening in your marrow. The way she said it—my daughter—wasn’t gentle or sentimental. It was absolute. It was a line drawn in blood. It was a vow. Not just to protect. But to claim. The air in the room seemed to hold its breath with you. Your belly gave a long, slow roll beneath your shirt, as if she felt it too. Your hand dropped instinctively, cradling the weight of your daughter with both palms.

Agatha didn’t stop. “My daughter is not a pawn. She is not a detail. She is not a complication or a footnote.” Her voice trembled—not with fear. With conviction. “And she is not a tool he gets to wield when he’s too threatened by brilliance to keep up.”

She stepped closer. Her hand hovered over your stomach like a blessing, like an invocation of protection passed through skin and magic and breath. “He doesn’t know who the fuck he’s playing with.” You felt that line in your bones. Felt it echo down into every quiet part of you that had ever been afraid. Every girlhood bruise. Every dismissive glance. Every moment you’d been made to shrink. Agatha, who had known cruelty. Agatha, who had once curled her fists in the dark just to survive the noise. Agatha, who now stood between you and the world, not to block it, but to dare it to come closer.

Your lips parted. You hadn't even realized you were smiling until Rio leaned down, brushing a kiss to your temple because she saw it too. The weight of those two words. My daughter. Each syllable a rebuke. A prayer. A prophecy. And in that moment, Marcus should’ve been terrified—not because one woman had claimed you, but because both had. Because each of you had said it. My daughter. Yours. Rio’s. Agatha’s. She wasn’t hypothetical. She wasn’t a metaphor. She was already known. Already loved. Made of all three of you.

Rio’s voice came next, low and deliberate. The kind of voice you only use when your anger is so sharp it can’t afford to shake. “He looked at your body,” she said, and even saying it made her jaw clench again, “and tried to rewrite your story. Like all that mattered was the curve of your stomach and the names you love.”

Her words sat heavy in the space between you. Not delicate. Not poetic. Agatha’s eyes met hers—dark and unflinching. There was no daylight between them. No hesitation. No soft deferral. “Let him try again,” she said. The sentence was so quiet it was nearly reverent. “Let him even think of trying again.”

Then she turned back to you, her breath steady, her expression fierce with a love that refused to flinch. She moved slowly, kneeling beside the couch, folding her body until she was level with yours—her knees against the floor, her hands rising to your stomach like she was steadying something fragile, or consecrating it.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your hands had returned to the base of your belly, cradling the swell like a shield—like she might hear all of this too, feel it in the way your breath caught, in the way your muscles tightened under your skin. Agatha brought one hand up, brushing your hair back behind your ear. Her touch was so gentle it hurt. “He underestimated you,” she said, eyes fixed on yours, voice low and blazing. “Because of your softness. Because you didn’t raise your voice. Because you chose truth over humiliation. He thought that made you small.”

Your eyes burned. Not from grief this time. From truth. Agatha’s palm cupped your jaw now, her thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone with infinite care. “That was his first mistake.”

You blinked—slow and trembling, the heat behind your eyes gathering at the rim. Your whole body felt suspended in breath. And then, softer still— “His second mistake,” she whispered, “was believing for even a second that you were alone.”

Rio moved in behind you then, resting one hand on your shoulder, the other on your belly. The weight of her touch wrapped around you like armor. The silence settled around the three of you, thick with everything that had been said—everything that hadn’t needed to be. The air buzzed with it, that strange electricity that comes after a storm: charged, but still.

Agatha’s hand was still at your cheek, her thumb soft against your skin. Rio hadn’t moved either—her palm splayed protectively across the round curve of your belly, her other arm around your shoulder like a band of warmth. You leaned back slowly into the couch cushions, your body relaxing by degrees, just enough to let your weight sink where you’d been floating. It didn’t erase anything, but it allowed for a breath. One real, whole breath.

And then, a flicker of something like mischief curved at the corner of your mouth. “You’d be proud of your daughter,” you said, voice low, tinged with amusement.

Both of them glanced at you, brows lifting in unison. “Started throwing punches the second she heard his voice.” Agatha blinked once, then grinned. Rio let out a quiet laugh, the kind pulled from her chest like a thread she hadn’t realized she was still holding. You nodded solemnly, your hand rubbing slow circles over your belly. “I swear, she was trying to throw hands. Little fists right under my skin. It was like she knew.”

Agatha leaned forward and kissed your stomach, murmuring against the fabric of your shirt. “That’s my girl.”

“That’s our girl,” Rio corrected with a smile, brushing her knuckles along your arm.

“Built of backbone and spite,” you added with a soft laugh. “Just like her mothers.” Agatha’s forehead dropped to your stomach again, and Rio rested her cheek against your shoulder.

Agatha was still resting her forehead against your stomach, the soft rise and fall of your breath beneath her touch grounding the moment. Rio leaned closer to you, her arm still snug around your shoulder, her fingers playing idly with the hem of your sleeve.

Then, Rio tilted her head slightly, her voice dry but warm. “Wait a minute—I thought you said her throwing punches was like me.” You let out a low laugh, your body relaxing further into the couch cushions.

“Did you just see Agatha?” you asked, incredulous, gesturing loosely toward where she was curled over your belly like a lioness who'd just dared someone to try again.

Agatha looked up with a lazy grin that didn’t quite hide the edge still in her eyes. “I’ll have you know, I haven’t flipped a table since 2013.” You laughed harder, a breathless, bright sound that felt like the first clean breath in hours.

Rio shook her head, grinning now as she tucked a curl behind her ear. Then she looked at you again—really looked at you. The remnants of her anger were still there, but softened now, tempered by something deeper. “Honey,” she said, leaning in just enough for her forehead to rest against yours, “you can’t see it, but when you were telling us all of that? I swear to God, I thought you were about to say you threw a brick in his direction.”

You snorted—because yeah. You could hear it now. Could picture it. “I mean…” you said with mock consideration, “I was about two seconds from launching a water bottle at his head. Does that count?” Agatha kissed your thigh again, laughing into your skin. Rio smiled wide. Just as the laughter began to settle—Agatha still curled over your thigh, Rio's forehead pressed gently to yours—you felt it.

A slow, deliberate shift beneath your skin. Then a nudge. Strong. Definite. You blinked, looking down. “Wait—”

Another kick. Then something sharper—an elbow or a heel, you couldn’t tell—but it rolled across the tight swell of your belly in a fluid, unmistakable arc. Rio sat up immediately, eyes widening as the motion rippled under your shirt. “Oh, damn—she’s putting on a show now.”

You laughed, wide and bright, your hand flying to your stomach as your daughter gave another bold stretch—this time pressing so firmly you could see the shape of it. A small foot or heel, round and perfect, rising against your skin like a little star breaking through the clouds.

“And now,” you said, breathless from joy, “she would like to show you a repeat of her performance.” Agatha’s hands joined yours on your belly, her eyes locked onto the movement, reverent. “Look at her,” she murmured, awe blooming in every word. “She’s got some strength behind those moves.”

“She’s got opinions,” Rio added, scooting closer again, her hand brushing alongside yours as the baby kicked again—two light jabs, one solid punch just beneath your ribs.

“Softball and karate,” Rio declared, nodding sagely. “Non-negotiable.”

Agatha snorted, brushing her thumb over the place where a tiny heel pressed outward like punctuation. “She can ease up on the punching, though,” she said with a smile. “Your Mama, Mommy, and Mamí have her covered.”

“That’s right,” Rio added, grinning at you. “No table flipping necessary. We’ve got a full security detail on deck.”

Another ripple moved across your stomach, slow and intentional, like she understood. You felt her roll, her arm or shoulder gliding from one side of your belly to the other. Your shirt stretched tight over the movement, catching the shape of her body like silk over wind.

You reached for both their hands and pressed them to either side of the swell, their palms warm against the taut skin of your belly. The baby moved again—another deliberate stretch, this time smaller, like she was settling into the feel of their touch. She knew them already. That much, you were sure of. “Look at her,” you whispered, voice thick with wonder. “She’s....”

Agatha leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, her nose brushing the curve of it. “She knows she’s safe.” Rio nodded, resting her forehead lightly to yours, her hand still firm over the left side of your stomach. “She knows she’s loved.”

Your daughter shifted again, just beneath their hands—less a kick, more a roll, like she was stretching out beneath their palms, claiming the space. Rio smiled, then leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping into something melodic, tender. “Hola, mi niña,” she said, the Spanish curling off her tongue like sunlight. “Ya está bien. Ya puedes calmarte. Mamí te tiene, ¿sí?” She pressed another kiss to your shoulder and then to your belly. “You don’t have to fight today. We’ve got you.”

The baby shifted again. Slower this time. Like she understood. Agatha gave a soft little hum, smoothing her hand over the curve where your shirt had ridden up slightly. Her touch was light, but reverent. “How are you today, little one?” she asked quietly. “Besides kicking your Mommy’s ribs and trying to start a rebellion?”

You laughed, tilting your head back against the cushions, the warmth of both of them cradling you. “She’s definitely got your timing,” you muttered, rubbing where another tiny push pressed outward. “Like I said, she started punching the moment Marcus opened his mouth.”

“That’s because she has taste,” Agatha replied, rolling her eyes. “And apparently a very low tolerance for bullshit.”

Rio grinned. “Definitely mine.”

You tilted your head back again, breathing out a long, contented sigh as your hands returned to the slow rhythm over your belly. “I think she’s hungry…” You murmured, letting the words stretch out just enough to be dramatic.

Both of them looked at you instantly. Agatha raised a brow. Rio narrowed her eyes suspiciously. You fought back a grin. “She’s definitely requesting something,” you added sweetly. “I mean, it’s not for me. It’s the baby.”

That always did it. Just as you expected, Agatha melted on cue, her smirk dissolving into a soft, indulgent laugh. “Of course,” she said dryly. “Because our daughter already knows how to manipulate us.”

“That’s not manipulation,” Rio countered, kissing your shoulder again. “That’s strategy.”

Agatha sat up slightly, her hand smoothing once more over your belly as she leaned closer. “And what would she like?” she asked, playing along now, her voice warm and velvet-soft. That’s when your daughter kicked. Hard. Right beneath Agatha’s palm.

All three of you paused. Agatha blinked, looking startled for only a moment—then her face broke into a stunned grin. “Well,” she laughed, “guess she likes the sound of her Mama’s voice.”

“A little too much,” you said, wincing playfully. “That was a roundhouse.” Rio snorted beside you, resting her hand back over the spot the baby had claimed. You could see the shape again—something long, maybe a foot—pressing outward with determined insistence.

“I think she wants takeout,” you mused aloud. “So we can all stay inside, pile up, and watch something comforting.”

You paused dramatically, then turned toward Rio with mock seriousness. “My love,” you said, reaching to gently pat her thigh, eyes gleaming with mischief, “do you think you can handle us ordering from the Mexican place? The one with the good queso? Or do I need to send out an SOS in advance?”

You leaned in a little closer, voice dropping into mock seriousness. “Your daughter is craving their food—but I want to make sure her Mamí survives the experience.” Rio groaned like she was being personally victimized by the thought alone, already pretending to clutch her stomach. “I’m sweating just thinking about it.”

Agatha arched a brow. “Weak.”

“No,” Rio said dramatically, “loyal. I do it for love. And cheese.”

You all broke into laughter, the kind that made your cheeks ache and your stomach flutter. The baby kicked again, less hard now, more rhythmic, like she was dancing to the sound of your joy. Agatha tucked herself back against your side, hand still over your belly, while Rio leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek. “Queso and movies it is,” Agatha said softly, her fingers trailing one last line over your belly before she tucked herself more firmly against your side.

Rio smirked, shaking her head, then leaned down slowly, until her mouth was just above the swell of your stomach. She kissed it once, then again, then whispered in a voice laced with adoration and mischief: “Is there anything else you want, Sprout? Hmm?” She cupped her hand around your side like the baby could lean in and answer.

You smiled—wide, conspiratorial—and turned to Agatha, tilting your head with theatrical innocence. “She wants to know if her Mommy still has her favorite cherry ice cream in the freezer,” you said sweetly. “The one her Mama and Mamí said tasted like cough syrup before she joined the picture.”

Agatha blinked once, then smiled wide “That's my girl, clearly developing a strong palate,” she said, leaning closer to press a kiss just above your navel. “She’s forming strong opinions,” you added, nodding solemnly. “She knows what she wants.”

“And apparently what she wants is cherry NyQuil in dessert form,” Rio muttered with a full-body shiver.

You laughed, tilting your head toward them both. “Well, unless one of you wants to tell her no…”

Agatha groaned, already rising from the couch with a theatrical sigh and a little stretch. “I’m not arguing with a Vidal Harkness about dessert cravings. I value my life.”

“She said thank you,” you called after her, grinning so wide your cheeks ached. Rio kissed your shoulder, her hand still resting protectively over the rhythmic movements beneath your skin. And your daughter, delighted, defiant, and already full of fire, gave one more kick like a wink between worlds.

--------

A few hours later, the house had settled into that kind of quiet that felt earned. The wrappers were tossed, the queso bowl was scraped clean, and the cherry ice cream had been—reluctantly—accepted by the household jury.

The bedroom had grown quiet in the best way—that deep, late-night stillness where love hums louder than sound. The only light came from the small lamp on the bedside table, its golden glow casting shadows that moved like old lullabies along the walls. Outside, the wind kissed the windows gently, but in here, the air was thick with warmth. With fullness. You were propped up against a pile of pillows, your body draped in the soft remnants of dinner and ice cream and the kind of comfort only two pairs of hands could give. The stretch of your belly was center stage now, bare beneath the hem of Rio’s borrowed tank top, the curve of your daughter held in a sacred spotlight.

Agatha was curled up beside you, spine elegant even in her half-sleepy posture, her legs tucked under her like a cat settled into her rightful place. Her curls were looser now, tumbling around her face, and her fingers brushed lazily over your stomach as if she could calm every kick just by existing. She looked at you like a woman who had seen every version of your soul—and loved them all.

Rio sat on the other side, tucked close, one leg drawn up beneath her, the other pressed gently to your thigh. Her glasses were still on, askew now, forgotten in the haze of intimacy, and her dark eyes never strayed far from your face or the swell of your belly beneath her hand. Her thumb tracing your knuckles like she was drawing protection into your skin.

Agatha's voice had dropped into its softest register, worn velvet against the night. The book—Bedtime Book for Bump—rested open in her lap. She read with a rhythm that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with devotion. “And the music of my words,” she read slowly, “will let you know you’re safe from harm.”

She closed the book like a spell had been finished, her hand still warm on your stomach. Rio smiled, low and wide, and then leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the side of your belly before whispering in Spanish. “Fuiste valiente hoy, mi amor. You were so brave.” The words slid over your skin like silk, and you blinked hard, a quiet smile finding its way to your lips. “She was,” you murmured, your voice barely more than breath. “You both were.”

Your daughter stirred beneath their hands, shifting slowly, and your body went still, just for the feel of it. The shape of her pressing outward made you shiver with recognition. Real. Here. You looked at both of them, then down at your belly again. And then it landed. Everything. The dissertation. The defense. The baby. The future. It all sat on the edge of your ribs, right next to your heart, pulsing like music.

You pushed yourself upright a little more, pillows shifting behind you. “Holy shit,” you breathed, eyes going wide. “Two weeks.”

Agatha’s brows rose, amused but curious. Rio straightened immediately, sensing something. “What happened?” Rio asked, reaching instinctively for her phone. “Is it the baby?”

You laughed, your voice high and breathless. “No—I mean yes—but not like that.” You beamed, gesturing to your belly and then toward yourself like the answer was everywhere. “I get to defend in two weeks. I get to invite people. I completely forgot I get to invite people.”

Rio blinked, the tension dropping from her shoulders as her face split into a grin. And then, from the other side of the bed, Agatha let out a breathless laugh, tipping her head back against your thigh before sitting up.

“Rio, let’s not go into baby mode anytime our wife starts cussing over the next few weeks,” she teased, her voice rich with affection and amusement. Then she turned back to you, arching a perfectly arched brow. “But my love… please try not to scare the shit out of us. Rio was about to go for the hospital bag she still thinks we don’t know about”

Her hand returned gently to your belly like punctuation, as if to say, you nearly gave me a heart attack, and I’d still do it all again. The laugh that followed was earned—the kind that makes your chest ache with how good it feels to be safe enough to laugh.

Rio’s mouth dropped open with a delighted grin as she quickly flipped to the calendar app on her screen. “That’s the day before the baseball game,” she said, half to herself, half to you. “The one with the boys.”

You nodded, excitement bubbling like champagne inside you. “Exactly. We’ll have family time before she gets here. It’s perfect. Like a little exhale before everything changes.”

Agatha’s fingers stilled; her hand warm against your skin. She tilted her head and smiled. “She’s not expected for another four or five weeks,” she said gently, though the glint in her eye said she already knew your daughter was going to do exactly what she pleased.

“Expected,” Rio echoed, laughing under her breath. “Tell that to your daughter who almost fought Marcus through her ribcage then tried to kick her way out during the queso course.”

You giggled, resting a hand over the side of your belly as another soft roll moved beneath it. And then, looking between them, your smile softened. Fell into something quieter. Truer.

“I just want the two of you there.” The words hung in the air for a beat. Soft. Simple. Absolute. “I don’t want a crowd. I don’t need a full room. I don’t care who else is invited.”

You swallowed, emotion curling up into your throat like the rise of tide. “I just want you. My wives. With me.”

Agatha didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. She just reached for your cheek and cupped it in her palm, her thumb grazing the curve of your jaw. “Then that’s exactly who will be there.”

Rio leaned in from your other side, pulling your hand to her mouth and kissing each knuckle slowly. “You’re not doing this alone,” she murmured, her voice like velvet. “Not now. Not ever.” Just beneath your ribs—like she’d been listening all along—your daughter gave a slow, steady push. Her foot, or elbow, or maybe her whole damn heart pressing outward like she was letting you know she was with you to.

You leaned back into the nest of pillows, the moment still humming between you like an aftershock made of love. Your fingers tightened slightly in Rio’s, thumb stroking the soft ridge of her knuckle. Agatha’s palm was still warm on your skin, right where your daughter had pushed last—where the echo of that claim still pulsed.

You took a breath, steady and sure now. The kind of breath that belongs to someone who’s survived something and knows she has. “I’ll email Dr. Li tomorrow,” you said softly, your voice calm again. “Let her know I want to keep it small. Just us.”

You didn’t need to elaborate. The air carried the rest. You were inviting only them. No fanfare. No crowd. No pageantry. Just your family. Right where they’ve always belonged. Agatha nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving yours. “Whatever you want,” she said gently, her thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your belly. “That’s what’ll happen.”

And it wasn’t a promise, not exactly. It was truth. Spoken like something older than vows. Rio gave your hand a soft squeeze, her voice quiet but full of steady fire. The yawn caught you off guard—deep, aching, the kind that rolled up from your chest like a wave and left your limbs heavy in its wake. “Mm,” you hummed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Okay. That’s it. I’m done. The day has officially won.”

They both chuckled softly, that low kind of laughter people only let out when they know they’re safe. You turned to Agatha first, lifting your head just enough to press a kiss to her mouth—soft, slow, the kind that held no urgency but still made a sound rise from your throat. A soft moan, lazy and full of want, not for anything more, but just for this. The feel of her lips. Her breath mingling with yours. Her hand coming up to cup your jaw without even thinking about it.

Then you turned toward Rio and did the same, brushing your mouth against hers like a thank you, like a prayer, like a thousand things you didn’t have the words for. Her hand cradled the back of your neck as you kissed her, her thumb gently pressing into the base of your skull.

“Mmm,” you breathed again, smiling through it. “God, I love you both.”

“We know,” Rio whispered, grinning against your mouth.

“We love you too,” Agatha said, already shifting on the bed like she knew what was coming next.

Rio moved first, pulling back the covers with a practiced flick of her wrist. You eased yourself down into the center of the mattress, slow and careful, one hand under your belly for support. Agatha opened her arms immediately. You didn’t hesitate. You curled into her side, your head tucked beneath her chin, her hand cradling the top of your belly, and the rest of her body becoming the softest, warmest version of a shield. She exhaled into your hair, her breath warm against your scalp.

“You’re stuck with me tonight,” you mumbled sleepily, “I’ve decided you’re my pregnancy pillow now.”

“I was wondering when you’d come to your senses,” Agatha murmured, wrapping her arm tighter around your waist. Rio eased in behind you, spooning around your back, her hand sliding up beneath the shirt you wore—fingers splayed wide, warm and sure, pressed against your belly like she was memorizing the shape of the life inside. You breathed deep. One long inhale. Two steady heartbeats. No more words. No more fear. Just the press of skin and the thrum of love so constant it was practically a lullaby.

--------

The house was asleep. Soft, sacred, and still—wrapped in the hush that only follows hard earned peace. From down the hall, faint breaths echoed like waves, steady and warm. Your sleeping form nestled between their bodies, belly curved like a moon, heartbeat slow with trust. But in the kitchen, the air was different. The overhead light above the stove cast a low, golden circle across the floor, just enough to cut a wedge through the dark. Outside the windows, the night held its silence. Inside, it was only Rio.

She sat at the kitchen counter barefoot, hair pinned back but fraying at the edges, her body folded tight over the laptop in front of her. The blue light from the screen deepened the shadows beneath her eyes. One hand hovered near the touchpad, scrolling, clicking, the other cradling a mug of untouched tea, long since gone cold. She didn’t look away from the screen. Didn’t blink. Her breath came slow, measured—but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her. She wasn’t just reading. She was hunting. The creak of the floorboards behind her was soft—nearly lost beneath the hum of the fridge—but not to her. She heard it. Expected it, maybe. But she didn’t turn.

“What are you doing?” Agatha’s voice slipped into the room like smoke—low, edged, deliberate. She stood just outside the light at first, her robe cinched loosely at the waist, the soft cotton clinging to one hip. Her curls were sleep-tousled, her expression unreadable, but her eyes were wide open. Awake in that sharp, ancient way—like something in her had known Rio wouldn’t be sleeping. The kind of awake that only came when something in you knew something was wrong.

Rio didn’t look up. She lifted her mug, took a sip, grimaced at the cold, and set it back down with a hollow sound. “Figuring out something I should’ve pieced together a long time ago.” No urgency. Just precision. Her bare feet kissed the tile as she crossed into the light, robe swaying softly with each step. She came to stand behind Rio, her gaze dropping to the screen.

Rio had at least half a dozen tabs open. Newspaper archives. Three different obituary listings. Two archived church bulletins. An open thread from someone Rio used to teach beside at the community college. Another tab showed a zoomed-in faculty photo from an unassuming seminary site in Tennessee.

And there, dead center— A face she already hated. Dr. Marcus. The same smirk. The same glassy gaze. Rio’s hand moved again. Her jaw flexed, moving to another obituary. And then—there it was. Agatha’s breath slowed, like her lungs were trying to read before her eyes could catch up. Rio clicked again. Another obituary. A familiar face. Chase.

The name hit like a drop of ice down Agatha’s spine, enough to make Agatha’s breath catch, her chest tighten with the cold press of memory. Rio leaned closer. Her hand twitched on the mousepad. Her breath stopped halfway down her throat as her eyes scanned the lines.

Then her whole body went still. And she whispered, almost without breath— “Are you fucking kidding me.” Agatha moved closer. Not fast. Not slow. Just with precision—like her feet already knew where to land before her brain caught up. Her hand finding Rio’s shoulder automatically, grounding her before she even understood what she was about to see.

Rio didn’t say anything else. She just pointed. Agatha’s eyes followed. There, centered beneath the florid gold script of a digital obituary, was the line that turned her stomach to stone:

Eulogy by Pastor Dr. Marcus.

There was no photo. No further context. Just the sentence. As if it meant nothing at all, but it did. It meant everything. Agatha’s fingers curled tighter into Rio’s shoulder. Her knuckles flared white. The room seemed to pulse with something invisible. The refrigerator hummed louder. The floor felt harder beneath her feet. She didn’t speak for several long seconds, and when she did, her voice was made of glass held at the edge of flame.

But Rio was still scrolling. Her breath short. Her eyes locked. She clicked into the guestbook section of the funeral page, barely thinking, just following the instinct that had brought her this far. It was there. A photo. Low-resolution, probably uploaded from an old church camera. Three people. Chase in the middle.

On his right, Dr. Marcus in a suit, hand on Chase’s shoulder. And on the left— Your mother. Standing close. Close enough to brush arms. Her hand resting lightly on Chase’s back. Agatha inhaled sharply. Rio blinked, disbelief splintering into fury across her face. The caption beneath the photo read: “My wife and Chase have found their place in heaven. What a sweet photo to remember the love of God with.”

Beneath that—Your father’s name. Typed plainly. As if it wasn’t a grenade. Agatha’s hand trembled once, then stilled. Her body locked into something harder than anger. “It’s all connected,” Rio said, voice low and flat. “Your mom. Chase. Marcus. They all knew each other.”

Rio stared at the screen. The past, all in one frame. The man who had hurt you. The man who was now sitting on your committee. And the woman who had tried to make you small. All smiling. Together. Agatha’s other hand gripped the edge of the counter like she needed to hold herself to the earth. Knuckles whitening, skin pulled tight over bone. And then, steady as a blade being drawn: “We need to be sure.”

Rio scrolled deeper into the guestbook. The page stuttered as it loaded—slow, clunky, relic-like. The photo gallery flickered before settling into grainy thumbnails. And then— Another image emerged. Chase stood at the center.

To his right, Dr. Marcus. His hand rested on Chase’s shoulder like it had always belonged there—casual, assured, too familiar. On the other side, another man. Mid-50s, with thinning hair and a church lapel pin, clutching a bulletin between pale fingers. All three were smiling. Ties bright. Eyes tired. A photo that meant nothing to most—until it meant everything. Beneath the photo, a single comment. “So proud of these three—Chase was the baby of the cousins, but he had the biggest heart. Can’t believe he’s gone.”

The name beneath it read: Keith Marcus. No photo. Just a plain text line: Retired deacon, father of two, brother to Pastor Dr. Marcus. Agatha’s lips parted slightly, her expression sharpening.

“Cousins.”

Rio whispered it back. “He was his cousin.”

The silence that followed felt unnatural—like even the house was holding its breath. Chase E. Whitmore hadn’t just been a disciple of your mother’s church. He was blood. Blood to the man who now sat on your dissertation committee. The man who'd looked at your belly and spoken like he owned your worth.

Agatha’s hand slipped to the edge of the counter. Her voice didn’t shake—it sliced. “He knew.” Rio nodded, her face still turned toward the screen. Dr. Marcus hadn’t just come into your life by chance. He hadn’t been some distant academic, unaware of the past he was wading into “He knew exactly who she was when he saw her name. He knew who she was when he volunteered for the committee. He knew, and that piece of shit has been sitting in the same room as our wife, making her life hell for… what… the fun of it?.”

The silence that followed was not hesitation. It was the kind that comes before a reckoning. Agatha stared at the photo again. Marcus’s smirk. Chase’s swagger. The third man’s quiet pride. A legacy captured in pixels. One that thought it could bury itself in institutions, robes, and ivory towers. Agatha’s voice dropped, dark and calm. “This was never a coincidence.”

Rio looked up. “No,” her face cold with something carved deeper than anger. Her jaw clenched so tight it ticked, voice like frost under pressure. “It’s personal.”

The room went quiet—but it wasn’t still. It hummed. The kind of quiet that comes before something erupts. They stood in the halo of stove light, bare feet on tile, shadows long and unforgiving. Rio’s fingers hovered above the laptop. Agatha’s were still clenched white against the counter.

It wasn’t connection. It was premeditation. Agatha’s hand moved slowly across the counter, steady now, her breathing controlled. But the look in her eyes? Pure ruin. Precise. “He’s been on her committee for a year, knowing exactly who she was. Who Chase was. Who her mother was.”

Rio’s lips curled—not with fear with something ancient. “He’s been studying her this whole time. Her eyes darkened. “And he’s made her life hell the entire time.” She clicked the laptop closed. The snap echoed like a gunshot. No more pretending. No more benefit of the doubt.

Every passive-aggressive critique. Every backhanded comment masked as a question. Every time he tried to shift blame, discredit her methods, frame her pregnancy as distraction, frame you as unprofessional, while knowing exactly who you were. All while carrying the names of your past in his mouth like they weren’t knives. Agatha straightened slowly, shoulders rising as if being pulled by something ancient in her bones. Her spine aligned with purpose. Her breath slowed.

Her voice came out low. Icy. Surgical. “He walked into our campus. Our halls. Our future. And tried to poison it.” The words didn’t just fall—they landed. “He used her trauma as leverage.” Each syllable was cut glass, every word honed down to its cruelest edge “He tried to discredit and silence her voice, just like Chase and her mother did.”

Agatha’s hands were no longer shaking. They had stilled entirely, resting on the countertop like anchors. Rio had only seen her like this a few times before—this version of Agatha. This exacting, unstoppable force born of silence and fury. The kind of rage that didn’t rise. It sank. Deep. Rooted. “He doesn’t sit across from her again.”

Rio nodded. Slowly. Measured. But her jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. The anger in Agatha was a living thing now, coiled beneath her skin, quiet and lethal. Not flaring. Not theatrical. Final. Her eyes, usually a deep ocean blue, had gone pale—storm gray, as if some part of her had opened and would not be closed again.

And then—her voice dropped, and something in the air went still. “He doesn’t speak to her again,” she said, and this time it was different. Not a command. A curse. “He doesn’t get to look at her again. Or breathe in the same room as them.”

Rio nodded. The anger in Agatha was one she had only seen a handful of times. One brought out of the protectiveness of what was hers. Of the life and people whom she would die to protect. Anger so fierce that if Rio didn’t know her, it would terrify her. Agatha’s blue eyes had gone steel gray. “Not my wives. Not my fucking family.”

It cracked the air like lightning. Family. Not just you. Not just Rio. Not just the baby turning gently under your skin in the bedroom, unaware of the war about to be waged in her name. Them. Agatha said them. Agatha, who had never had parents who fought for her. Agatha, who had known what it was to be unwanted. Unchosen. A girl made of too much power and not enough softness for anyone to protect. Agatha, who now stood in the half-light of a quiet kitchen, robe open at one shoulder, fire burning behind her teeth—and said mine. Not out of possession. But devotion.

Rio had spoken little since the obituary, since the photo, since the caption that had laid it all bare. But now, hearing those words—my wives, my family—she looked at Agatha fully. Something passed over her face. Something old. Her nostrils flared. Her throat worked through a tight swallow. Because she knew this wasn’t Agatha just being furious. This was Agatha becoming the mother she never had, the wife she’d promised to be, the fortress Rio didn’t even realize she’d been building around each of you every time she brushed your hair back at night or held Rio close at night.

“Rio.” She drew it out like an invocation. Slow. With weight. Rio’s head tilted slightly. Her eyes sharp, jaw tense. Agatha continued, voice trembling now, not with weakness, but with force so tightly held it was dangerous: “Marcus looked at our wife. Our daughter. Our entire fucking world and made it his mission to hurt them both.” A pause. “And he did. He fucking hurt them both.”

Rio’s hands curled into fists. Her knuckles whitened. Her whole body shifted like it was remembering something, some time she couldn’t get back, some breath she couldn’t protect you from. Rio didn’t nod. She promised. “He won’t do it again.”

Not a threat. A fact. They turned toward each other. No theatrics. No ceremony. Just knowing. The knowing of two women who had bled for what they loved. The knowing of soulmates. Their hands met—grip tight, righteous.

A vow older than language. Agatha didn’t whisper the next words. She stepped back from the counter, her bare feet firm on the tile. The robe was shifting around her like a shadow. Her eyes were steel. “He picked the wrong woman. He picked the wrong family.”

She reached out. Flicked the switch. The kitchen light blinked out. And as the dark flooded in, Rio’s voice followed, low and final. Like the closing of a door behind someone who would never return.

“And he forgot who she belongs to.”

--------

🎵Who's been screwing up everything? It's been.....🎵 Let me know what you think 🖤

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sweetiecelin · 4 months ago

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A Ride of A Lifetime (Dean x Reader)

Request from @lieutenantchaos: could you write a dean x reader fic where after a hunt you end up at a bar with a mechanical bull and Dean gets jealous and possessive over the reader after they’ve gotten off the bull?

Summary: After a hunt you and Dean decide to head to a dive bar, meaning to blow off some steam

The hunt you and the boys went on was a bitch. It was a nest of vampires that was draining and turning runaway teens, and you got there just in time to only save one kid. The guilt from not being able to save the others, weighed deep on you. So when Dean suggested going to the local dive, you took the chance to drink your sorrows away. The younger Winchester opted to stay at the motel, claiming he wanted to catch up on sleep(after he looked for your next case).

It was a dingy little place, smelling like regret and cigarette smoke with some soft rock playing in the background. You walked away from the bar as Dean found a table. After the bartender slid over two beers and a round of shots, you made your way back to Dean.

A few rounds later, you happened to notice people gathering around this mechanical bull. There was a woman already riding on it, the men hollering out comments about her and making suggestive comments. You looked over at Dean, who was focusing on her and biting his lip. You had this growing crush on him but he seemed more interesting in any other girl. It felt like you just weren’t his type.

Then you got an idea. If he wasn’t going to pay attention to you, the other men were probably going to.

While he wasn’t paying attention; You strolled over to the bull, navigating through the crowd and finding the person working it. After flashing a smile or two he agreed to let you hop on as the woman who was riding it fell off. Walking on to the platform, you hopped right on. Gripping on the reins you got comfortable, the comments about you started; from the men being excited and looking a little predatory, while the women were looking judgmental towards both you and their boyfriends.

The bull started rocking back and forth starting to turn. You gripped on for dear life as it went faster and faster. You were so focused on staying on the bull, you didn’t see Dean looking at you with wide eyes. Then he started to hear the comments about you, how some men wanted you to ride them like the bull. His irritation started growing, as you started rocking your body with the movements of the bull. It wasn’t until you made a passing glance around the bar and saw Dean. If you hadn’t seen Dean’s face, you probably would’ve lasted a few more seconds. The shock of the look on his face and making his way to you, you were tossed off the damn bull.

You were making your way in Dean’s direction when someone grabbed your arm. The guy pulled you close and whispered in your ear making a suggestion that if you went with him to his place you’d leave a happy girl. Deann’s eyes went directly to you and the guy. The laugh you made at his comment, Dean’s vision went red. He quickly got you, and shoved the guy away. Now it was Dean’s grip on your arm dragging you out of the dive.

Once you reached the impala, he turned to you with the most pissed of look on his face, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Huh? Riding the bull?”

“No, intentionally trying to get the attention of every guy in there. Even the bartender was staring at you,” He just looked at you and sighed.

“Dean, I don’t know if you know this, but we’re not dating. I can do whatever I please. Plus, not every guy was staring,” You just flashed a teasing smile at him.

He just looked at you and sighed, “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to keep an eye on you and make sure you didn’t do something stupid.”

“I don’t do anything stupid,” You joked.

“(Y/N), you almost went home with that asshole.”

“I wouldn’t have gone with him, I know a bit better than going to a stranger's place,” You sassed getting into the car.

He went to the driver's side, now flashing you a flirtatious smirk, “Who knows, but now you’re going home with me.”

“Yeah, are you going to fuck me?”

Staring at you, Dean just grabbed you by your cheeks and smashed his lips on yours. The kiss deepened until he pulled away smiling.

“Only if you’re serious about that offer,” looking at your lips and flashing back up to your eyes.

“Oh,” you had to process what just happened, “I would like that very much.”

“Good, two conditions though; You ride me like that bull, I’ll even buck my hips for you and you have to stay silent so we don’t wake Sammy up.”

“Or we could get a different room?”

“Ou, I like that idea more, or we could do it right here in the impala.”

That night, you settled on both options. In the morning, things were definitely going to be different.

Author's Note: Hey y'all, it's been awhile since I wrote something. My old shit is SOOO bad. But I'd appreciate any feedback so I can write some better crap for you.

#dean winchester #supernatural #spn #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #mechanical bull #Jealousy #Lowkey Fluff #supernatural x reader #spn x reader #Dean Winchester x you #dean x you

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shadyfestivalperfection · 2 months ago

Text

Love, Lies And Loki~24

Summery: First Kick, Baby shower and weird cravings!

Characters: Loki x pregnant!wife!reader

Note: All characters except y/n are not mine!

||Master List||

25. Woven Together (requested!)

🍼 Little Mischiefs P-2 🎁

It was just past midnight, and the quiet of the house was only broken by the occasional rustle of tree branches brushing against the windows. Loki had finally managed to doze off, one arm thrown over the heap of pillows Y/N had constructed into a nest to support her ever-growing belly. The twins were nearing six months, and her body had begun insisting on more comfort than ever before.

But Y/N was not asleep.

Not even close.

She lay still for a few minutes, eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying to will herself to ignore the gnawing hunger that had crept up out of nowhere. It wasn’t just hunger—it was a craving. A very specific one.

She glanced at the time on the clock beside her.

12:41 a.m.

She whispered to herself, “I need pickles… and whipped cream.”

It sounded absurd even as the words left her lips, but the more she thought about it, the more irresistible the combination became. She gently moved Loki’s arm and began to slip out of bed, slow and careful.

But Loki’s eyes opened immediately.

“Darling?” His voice was still hoarse with sleep, but his senses were clearly alert. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry. I’m just… hungry,” she said sheepishly, her hand resting protectively on her belly.

Loki propped himself up on one elbow, eyeing her suspiciously. “You’ve already eaten more than Volstagg today. Are the little mischiefs not satisfied?”

She turned, a small smile playing at her lips. “They want something weird. I’m just going to the kitchen. Go back to sleep.”

But Loki had already swung his legs out of bed and reached for his robe. “If you’re going, I’m going with you. I won’t have you waddling around half-asleep and hungry at midnight. It’s dangerous.”

“Loki, it’s literally ten steps away—”

“Hush,” he said, already slipping his arm around her waist as they walked. “A queen of mischief and her royal cargo should never journey alone.”

Y/N rolled her eyes affectionately but leaned into his side anyway.

In the kitchen, she opened the fridge and triumphantly pulled out a jar of pickles and a can of whipped cream. Loki stared.

“Please tell me you’re not planning to combine those.”

Y/N grinned. “I wasn’t… until just now.”

Loki watched in muted horror as she perched on a stool and expertly dipped a pickle into a swirl of cream.

“You can’t possibly enjoy that.”

She took a bite. Her eyes fluttered shut. “You have no idea.”

Loki narrowed his eyes as though the food itself had personally offended him. “That is abominable.”

“Wanna try?”

“Absolutely not. I have fought dragons, Y/N. I draw the line at dairy-coated vegetables.”

She laughed, and Loki felt a warmth spread through him—this domestic absurdity was his new normal, and somehow, it was everything.

Y/N polished off another pickle, then gasped suddenly, her eyes wide.

Loki instantly straightened. “What? What is it?”

She placed her hand on her stomach, stilling.

“Loki… I think they kicked.”

“What?” He knelt instantly beside her stool, pressing his hands gently against the bump. “Here? Do it again, little beasts!”

She chuckled, guiding his hand. A moment later, there it was—a distinct flutter, followed by a firmer thump.

Loki’s eyes widened in wonder. “By the Norns…”

Y/N could see the exact moment his usual smugness melted away, replaced with pure awe.

“That was them,” he whispered.

She nodded. “They’re real, Loki.”

He leaned in, kissed her belly softly, then looked up at her, his voice reverent. “They’re perfect.”

⸻

A soft spring sun beamed down over their backyard, where round tables were dressed in pastel linens and tiny floating clouds of illusion-magic hung overhead like little puffs of joy. It had been Loki’s idea—“Why not create charm-enhanced clouds instead of mere balloons?”—and he had spent the better part of the morning fine-tuning their glow to match Y/N’s favorite shades of blue and lilac.

Y/N stood barefoot in the grass, one hand cradling her bump and the other resting on her hip as she watched the final touches being placed.

“Okay, but do we really need illusion foxes handing out cupcakes?” she teased, watching as a glamoured little white fox trotted up to a platter of vanilla treats.

Loki, dressed in a lightweight green tunic and a golden circlet, gave her a pleased smile. “Absolutely. You are the goddess of this celebration, and no goddess throws a dull party.”

“You say that like I’m actually divine,” she murmured.

He stepped closer, wrapping an arm gently around her. “You are—perhaps not by birthright, but by spirit, by strength, and by how completely you’ve enchanted me.”

Y/N blinked away the sudden warmth in her eyes. “You’re not allowed to be this sweet before guests arrive. I need to keep my mascara intact.”

Just then, a booming voice echoed from beyond the house. “Did someone say party?”

Thor appeared, practically glowing with excitement. Beside him stood Brunnhilde, dressed in a sleek silver jumpsuit and carrying a gift wrapped in shimmering blue paper.

“I brought ale!” Thor bellowed.

“And I brought a bottle for the pregnant woman,” Brunnhilde said dryly, holding up a fancy bottle of sparkling fruit juice.

Y/N laughed and waddled forward to hug them both. “You two are officially my favorite Asgardians.”

“Hey!” Loki said indignantly.

Brunnhilde grinned. “He’s a close second.”

As more guests trickled in—Natasha, Sam, Bucky, even Doctor Strange, begrudgingly holding a baby rattle encased in a containment charm—Y/N was overwhelmed by the love and care surrounding her.

After games (Thor enthusiastically failed the “guess the baby food” challenge), cake (two-tiered and decorated with mischief-themed frosting), and lots of laughter, the group moved on to presents.

Y/N unwrapped tiny booties enchanted by Wanda to keep feet warm forever, a miniature Mjolnir rattle carved from enchanted wood, and a cloak embroidered with golden runes—“To match their father’s arrogance,” Brunnhilde quipped.

Toward the end, Loki brought forward a slim box wrapped in emerald green.

Y/N opened it to find a pair of matching bracelets—delicate, golden, and laced with starlight magic.

“They’re protection charms,” he said softly. “So that even when I’m not near, they’ll always feel my presence.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “Loki…”

He pressed a hand to her cheek. “I just want them to grow up knowing they are never alone. That their father is always watching over them.”

She cupped his face in return, eyes wet. “They’ll know, Loki. They’ll feel it. Because they’ll see it every day in how you love us.”

And then, with the sun sinking low and the sky painted in soft hues, Loki knelt before her, resting both hands on her belly and whispering in Old Norse, words only the wind understood.

“Protect your mother. Listen to her. She is everything.”

⸻

The house was finally quiet. Empty cups and ribbons scattered across the kitchen counters, leftover cupcakes tucked away in boxes, and colorful wrapping paper shimmered under the moonlight filtering through the windows. The baby shower had been a beautiful chaos—Thor’s booming laughter still echoed in Y/N’s ears, Brunnhilde’s mischievous toast about future godling twins, and Natasha’s gentle questions about how she was feeling lately. Everyone had smiled, joked, celebrated.

It should have been perfect.

But now that it was over, the echo of laughter had given way to silence, and something Y/N couldn’t name twisted inside her. She padded barefoot to the backyard, tugging one of Loki’s old green shawls around her shoulders as the evening breeze kissed her skin. She didn’t want to turn on the garden lights. She didn’t want to explain why her throat was tight or why she’d been smiling all day while a strange weight settled on her chest.

The soft creak of the wooden swing welcomed her like an old friend. She sat gently, her hand instinctively settling over her growing belly. The twins. It should’ve been a memory to treasure.

And it was. Mostly.

But somewhere in the hidden corners of her heart, something stirred. Something fragile.

She didn’t hear Loki approach at first—he was quiet when he wanted to be. But she knew the moment he stepped outside, a wave of familiar magic brushing her skin like a whisper.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice was low, tentative. He didn’t want to startle her.

She didn’t turn her head, but her hand clenched slightly in the fabric of his shawl.

“I saw you weren’t in bed,” he said gently, crossing the distance between them.

She didn’t reply. She didn’t know how.

Loki moved slowly, as if unsure whether to press further. When he reached her, he hesitated just a moment before sitting on the swing beside her, careful not to make it sway too harshly.

Moonlight painted silver across his face, catching the worry etched between his brows.

“Y/N,” he murmured again, this time softer. “What’s wrong, love?”

She exhaled shakily, still staring straight ahead. The garden around them was quiet save for the breeze through the trees and the faint hum of magic in the earth.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I think… I should be happy.”

“You are happy,” Loki said, but the words weren’t defensive. They were hopeful. Fragile.

“I am,” she nodded slowly, blinking back fresh tears. “I am. But also… not. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Loki didn’t interrupt. He simply waited, watching her, waiting to understand.

Y/N finally turned her head toward him, her voice trembling. “Do you ever feel like you’re not enough?”

Loki blinked. He wasn’t expecting that. “For what?”

“For this,” she gestured vaguely to herself, to the house, to the entire world they’d built. “For the life we have. For you. For our children.”

Loki’s expression softened, but he didn’t immediately reassure her. He didn’t say that’s not true, or don’t think like that.

He leaned in slightly, voice low. “Where is this coming from?”

She swallowed hard. “I heard your mother’s name mentioned today. Frigga. Thor told me once that she was everything—powerful, wise, magical. She taught you everything you knew. And when I look at myself… I’m not her. I don’t come from magic or royalty. I’m just me. A fashion designer with shaky hands and hormone-fueled meltdowns. What if I can’t give them what they need?”

Loki’s jaw tensed for a moment—but not in anger. Just pain. He reached for her hand slowly and curled his fingers over hers.

“You are not just anything, darling. You are everything.”

“But Loki—”

“No,” he said, more firmly. “Don’t do that. Don’t compare yourself to someone you never needed to become.”

She tried to look away, but he cupped her chin gently, turning her eyes back to his.

“My mother was incredible. I loved her more than words. But you are not meant to be her. You are you. And our children—our twins—will love you for exactly who you are.”

Y/N’s lip quivered. “But what if I mess it up? What if I can’t protect them?”

Loki’s hand slid from her chin to her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears.

“Then I will protect you all. I will shield you with every part of me. That is not your burden alone. We are in this together, always.”

She leaned into his palm, eyes falling closed. “I feel so strange lately. Like my emotions are bouncing everywhere. I was crying over spilled tea yesterday.”

“I remember,” he said, with the ghost of a smile. “You accused the kettle of betrayal.”

Y/N let out a broken laugh, curling closer to him, the tension in her shoulders slowly loosening.

“I just… I want to be strong for them. I want to be strong for you.”

“And I want you to know,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple, “that strength isn’t about never being scared. Or never doubting. Strength is sitting in the moonlight, baring your soul, and letting yourself be seen. You’re already stronger than you know, my love.”

She breathed slowly. “You always know what to say.”

“That’s because I know you,” he said. “Every little spark and storm. And I wouldn’t trade this life with you for all the thrones in all the realms.”

Y/N pulled back just slightly to meet his eyes. “Promise?”

“I swear it,” he said, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “You—we—are the magic I never thought I’d be allowed to have.”

The tears came again, but this time softer. Healing.

Loki wrapped his arm around her shoulders and guided her to rest against his chest. The swing creaked gently beneath them, and the stars blinked above, listening quietly.

“I’m scared sometimes too,” he admitted, after a long pause.

“You are?”

He nodded. “Terrified. That I’ll do something wrong. That I won’t know how to be a father. That I’ll somehow pass along the worst parts of me.”

Y/N looked up at him, eyes wide. “You could never.”

“I could,” he said gently. “But I won’t. Not if I have you beside me.”

There was a long silence between them, but it wasn’t heavy. It was full of quiet warmth, the kind only shared by those who knew the weight of love and chose it anyway.

“I love you,” she whispered.

He smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips. “I love you more.”

“No, I do.”

He chuckled softly. “We could go on like this for hours.”

“We have,” she laughed, her mood slowly brightening. “Remember our first anniversary? You argued for twenty minutes that I loved you more.”

“And I was right.”

Y/N shook her head, resting her hand on her belly. “I think the twins might have opinions on that.”

Loki placed his hand beside hers, feeling the soft magic still humming within her. “They’ll know their mother is the fiercest, most radiant soul the realms have ever seen.”

She smiled, tilting her head against his. “Will you stay out here with me a little longer?”

“For eternity, if you ask.”

And so, beneath the stars, on the creaky wooden swing in their backyard, they sat. The goddess and her god. The mother and the father. Two souls tangled in love, in worry, in promise.

A soft wind swept through the garden, and a single white bloom opened on a vine nearby—out of season, shimmering with faint gold.

Magic.

Love.

Life.

And the promise of all things to come.

-to be continued

#marvel #fanfiction #shadyfestivalperfection #female reader #romance #loki x reader #loki x you #pregnancy

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captainsophiestark · 7 months ago

Text

Nothing Wrong With Emotions

Platonic!Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for Fictober 2024! Requested by Anon! Hope you like it, Nonnie, and thanks for being patient through the delay!

Fandom: Star Wars

Day Twenty-Six Prompt: "You were the first."

Summary: Anakin's at the beginning of the worst two days of his life. Thankfully, his best friend is there when he needs them, and they're more emotionally intelligent than some of the other Jedi.

Word Count: 4,903

Category: Angst, Fluff

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

My mind whirled as I marched through the halls of the Jedi temple, the length of my to-do list rapidly creeping towards overwhelming. This war had been going on for far too long, and even worse, there'd been a growing disturbance in the Force that had been nagging at the back of my mind for days. I kept glancing outside, expecting to see dark storm clouds through the windows to reflect the storm I felt coming with every fiber of my being, but the bright blue sky was unobstructed.

Something was wrong. I knew it, and so did the entire Jedi Council and then some. But none of us could quite figure out what.

Until anything more concrete could be figured out, we all still had mountains of work to accomplish. I needed to visit Jocasta in the Archives, check out five different books, bring a few to the Creche, meet with Master Windu-

My mind and body came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the hallway like I'd physically run into a wall. My to-do list, the lurking low-level disturbance in the Force, and just about everything else in my mind had just been shoved violently to the side by the feelings being put out by my best friend, who was apparently just down the hall from me.

Anakin Skywalker and I had met when he became a Padawan. We'd crossed paths regularly enough and spent enough time together that we'd bonded quickly, and now, he was probably my closest friend in all the worlds. As a result, I could usually read and feel him through the Force better than anyone else. But with the knot of negative emotions he was putting out right now, I was betting a Jedi in the Outer Rim would be able to notice.

I frowned, dropping my data pad on the nearest table and turning to go after Anakin. I had no idea what could've caused the hornet's nest of energy my best friend was putting out, but there was no way I was going to go about my day and ignore it.

I had to jog a little to catch up to him, since he was walking away from me. I caught him at the end of one of the Temple's hallways, seemingly headed for the hanger. I grabbed his elbow before he could round the corner, and he whirled on me with such a fierce scowl that, had it been anybody else, I would've flinched.

"Ani? What's wrong?"

Anakin practically growled, his shoulders up by his ears and his jaw clenched. Still, he had the gaull to say, "Nothing."

I scoffed. "My friend, I've never seen a more obvious lie in my life. I know you much better than that, although you apparently don't think so."

That negative air around Anakin instensified. He was clearly hanging on by a thread. I glanced around the hallway, and although no one else was around, I knew from first-hand experience that the Jedi Temple wasn't always the best place to process strong emotions.

"Alright, how about we go somewhere else?" I suggested, gently taking Anakin's arm again. He kept his glare trained on me, the swarming storm still clearly raging, but he didn't try to pull away from me either. Gently, slowly, I led Anakin away from the Temple, and thankfully, he followed.

"Where are we going?" Anakin barked, the first words he'd managed since his lie in the hallway. I glanced back at him with a smile.

"A place that's good for processing shit. Just trust me for a minute, okay?"

Anakin didn't respond, but he didn't make a move to leave, either, and the dark cloud centered on his chest didn't get any bigger. We climbed into my speeder, and after a short ride, parked at the top of one of the tallest buildings on the planet. The sun had just started to set, painting the sky in beautiful colors that didn't match the lurking darkness at all.

I hopped out, and when Anakin didn't immediately follow me, I motioned for him to do the same. After another moment's hesitation, he slowly climbed out of the passenger seat, glaring doubtfully around us.

"What is this place?" he asked. His tone had lost some of its gravel, which was a relief. I smiled and spread my arms wide, gesturing to the rooftop before us.

"This is paradise," I said. "A smaller, separate loction to the Coruscant Gardens. I made friends with the gardeners here a while ago, and they agreed to let me come up here and hang out whenever I wanted, as long as I don't hurt the plants. It's become my favorite place to be when I need... space. From the rest of the Jedi, to process things, from the war and the senate and whatever else... for anything, really."

"What do you mean, when you need space from the rest of the Jedi?"

I turned back to Anakin with a raised eyebrow. The set of his shoulders alone told me he knew exactly what I meant by "space from the Jedi", but they also told me he might not be in the mood to be teased about it.

"Well... you know, sometimes the Council and everybody can get a little... stuffy. And they taught me a lot of great techniques for managing my emotions, but meditation takes a lot of fucking practice and doesn't always work for me, especially in the middle of a storm. So, I've found other strategies for when the regular Jedi ones don't work. And from the energy you're putting out into the world right now, I thought you could use something like that."

Anakin frowned, but he took a few steps closer to me, away from the speeder. I gave him a tentative smile.

"Are you saying meditation doesn't work for you? That... that what the masters have taught us doesn't work for you?"

I shrugged. "A lot of the time, it does. More and more the more I practice. But sometimes, no, Ani, it doesn't work for me. The feelings are too strong or get too built up, and I need another way to bleed off steam before the kettle boils over, so to speak. Like this!"

I turned from Anakin and raised my hand, using the Force to start the program I'd put together up here years ago. To the side of the garden, in the empty parking space next to my speeder, a plate shot up and into the air. I used my blaster to shoot it before it could come back down, and I grinned as the thing shattered to pieces. Then, I turned back to Anakin with a smile.

"It's more satisfying to smash the plates by hand, but I can't do that from a distance, and I wanted to show off."

Anakin just stared at me for a long moment. To my relief, his surprise and confusion seemed to be taking over some of the space his anger had been occupying before.

"Are you really telling me that when you're angry... you come up here and smash plates?"

"When I get angry enough, yeah. It's not a fix, though, it's just a pressure vent. When I really feel like I'm going to lose it—like when I heard about what General Krell did, and all I wanted to do was go kill him in his cell—I come up here and let some of that rage vent off. Then, it's easier for me to use other, less destructive strategies to manage things. But Ani, I don't think I need to tell you, trying to mediate when you feel like your blood is boiling and every nerve in your body is screaming? It's... not the easiest thing to do."

"No," he said, voice grim and the scowl back on his face. "No, it isn't."

"So then let's smash some plates! Come on, I promise it'll help. And then maybe you can tell me a little bit about what's wrong. Talking usually does wonders for strong emotions, too."

Anakin looked dubious, but we'd been through so much together that he trusted me enough to try.

Anakin moved into the space I'd specfically designed as a sort of protected area for plate-smashing, picking up the first thing he saw. He held it up, but paused briefly and turned back to me. The rage swirled around so strongly, I swear it almost manifested physically around him.

"And you won't tell the Council about this?"

I snorted. "No! Fuck the Council! Smash some plates!"

Anakin huffed, then didn't wait another second to do as I said. He moved like lightning, grabbing one plate and then another, hurling each one into the ground. He kept going, getting more and more worked up, the anger rising up and around him as he let it all out. He became more and more frenzied, then slammed one last plate into the ground so hard that parts of it became dust, before letting out a long, loud scream.

I just watched him, being careful not to let my emotions bleed out through the Force too much. Watching my best friend clearly in so much pain was tearing me up, but I knew Anakin would hate the pity, so I needed to move past it for both our sakes.

Finally, as the scream died out with the last of Anakin's air on that breath, he slumped forward, breathing hard. Still, his shoulders were lower than his ears for the first time since I'd found him in the hallway, and that roaring wave of anger had quieted a little, being joined with frustration and sadness.

I gave him a second, then slowly approached when I was sure he wasn't going to reach for another plate. I put a hand gently on his shoulder, and when he turned to face me, I found him with tears streaming down his face and the same fierce scowl he'd had earlier.

"Anakin," I said, trying to strike the right balance of calm and firm. "Talk to me."

"I can't," he ground out. "I can't talk to you!"

"Why? I swear, everything stays between us. But the plates are just the first part, Ani. The second part is talking things out and finding a way to move forward-"

"No!" He'd been shaking his head for most of my speech, but he broke in when he couldn't take it anymore. "There are things you don't know, that I can't tell you!"

I studied his face, trying to figure out what exactly he might be referring to. I had a couple of theories, but Anakin still didn't seem to be in a good place to respond to theories, so I decided to take a different approach.

"Okay... is there any part of what's bothering you that you can talk to me about? Even something smaller, that's been part of the buildup? Or you could just tell me about the feelings without talking about the cause."

Anakin took a few deep breaths, clenching his jaw as he took heavy breaths in and out. He looked to be at war with himself, so I just concentrated on putting out calm, non-judgemental energy and hoped for the best.

Slowly, Anakin straightened. I let my hand drop back to my side, but I didn't take a step back. A lot of the manic energy had disappated from Anakin, but none of the emotions had yet.

"Master Windu doesn't trust me. I- I found the Sith Lord."

"What?" I cried, leaning forward and grabbing Anakin's forearm. "Anakin, are you serious?"

"It's Chancellor Palpatine."

I just blinked at him for a few moments, trying to take that information in. Then it was my turn for some fear and negative emotions to take root in my chest.

"Shit. Are you sure? Of course you're sure. Oh, this is the absolute worst-case scenario. Anakin, did you tell Windu? What did he say? If he's not going to do something, we-"

"He's going to confront the Chancellor with Masters Fisto, Tiin, and Kolar. I told him that the Chancellor is very powerful, and that they might need my help. I offered to go! But he refused to let me come. Told me to sit and wait for their return in the Council Chambers."

I frowned again, my mind racing a million miles an hour. I didn't let go of Anakin, and I could feel just how carefully he was watching me. Knowing that Windu and other Jedi had gone after the Chancellor was simultaneously scary and a relief, but in both cases, it meant he was currently someone else's problem. I could put that on the backburner to pay attention to my best friend, at least for now. I took a deep breath and shook my head.

"You think Windu told you to wait in the Council Chamber because... he doesn't trust you?"

"I know it. He told me himself I'd earn his trust only after he returned from confronting the Chancellor, only if I was correct."

I narrowed my eyes and huffed. "That's fucking ridiculous."

"You sound angry."

"I am angry. You've been here for a long time, Anakin, and you've done so much for the Order and for the galaxy as a whole. If Windu has a problem, he at least could've put it a little more diplomatically."

"I don't think I've ever seen you angry before."

The shock of that statement was enough to shake me out of my thought. I met Anakin's eyes with surprise.

"What? Yes you have."

"No, I haven't," he said, a bit of irritation in his voice. Thankfully, it was the kind I normally heard from him whenever we bickered, not the more serious kind. "Jedi don't get angry, just like you, and just like Obi-Wan, and just like every other damned Jedi but me!"

"Anakin... what? Of course Jedi get angry! Do you not remember me threatening to kill Kenobi when he threw out the Outer Rim delicacy I tracked down while we were out there because 'he thought it looked spoiled'? I literally almost punched him in the nose!"

"No, I don't remember that!"

"Kriffing hell! You must've been training or something with Ahsoka. Whatever. The point is, Anakin, everybody gets angry. Everybody humanoid, at least! It's emotion, which all of us have. Even Obi-Wan, who I'll admit, is remarkably good at not letting anything get to him."

Anakin just stared at me, looking absolutely thunderstruck, so I continued.

"We also, like you and everyone else, get sad and scared and exhausted and irritated. And happy and excited and impatient! It's normal to feel, Anakin. I'm sorry if somebody made you believe otherwise."

He started shaking his head, slowly and then much more quickly and frantic.

"No. No, that's not the Jedi way. The Jedi aren't supposed to feel, we aren't allowed to feel."

"If that were true every last one of us would've been kicked out years ago! Anakin, you can't control your feelings. You can control how you handle them, and that's what they're always trying to teach us at the Temple. But there's no amount of training or pratice or meditiation or whatever that can just magically make you not feel anger, ever again."

I saw Anakin's mind working as it processed what I'd just said. He seemed to accept it, at least, before I could feel his attention shift in the Force, and his fierce scowl returned.

"Even if you're right, no amount of 'handling' would help me."

"What are you talking about? Come on, Ani, I'm your best friend! If you can't tell me, who can you tell?"

"No one! I already told you, no one! I'm... I'm running out of time..." The sharp storm of anger changed abruptly into one of fear as Anakin's attention shifted away from me and back to the city. "We've been here too long. I need to go, now!"

He started taking off for the speeder, and it took my brain a few moments to catch up to his 180 degree shift. Once it did, I ran after him.

"Anakin, stop! Please, talk to me!"

I caught the edge of his robe and pulled it back. The moment I did, Anakin whirled on me, his expression a storm that threatened to bowl me flat. Still, I didn't flinch, and I didn't give up an inch.

"I can't be here! I'm running out of time! Padmé-"

He stopped abruptly and scowled even deeper, but the name was already out of his mouth.

"I knew this had something to do with her! Come on, Ani, talk to me. What's wrong? Is she okay? Is she mad at you? Is somebody coming after her again?"

"It's... It's none of your concern!"

Anakin whipped around again, pulling his robes out of my grip, but I called after him.

"If something's wrong with my good friend and my best friend's wife, then it's absolutely my concern!"

That got Anakin to stop dead in his tracks. He turned back around to me, his expression wild as the wind from up here blew his hair. I just stared back with a raised eyebrow.

"How do you know about that?" he demanded. I scoffed.

"Anakin, please! I'm your best friend, and the two of you are absolute shit at hiding it! I literally walked into the kitchen on one of the Cruisers and found you guys making out."

"When?" he demanded, sounding indignant.

"You'd know if you'd had an ounce of awareness! You were so busy making out with your wife that you literally didn't even notice I was there. I turned around and walked out because I did not want to see that for another second, and you clearly wanted to keep it a secret on some level. But this was months ago."

Anakin looked like I'd just shoved him over. I put a hand on my hip and raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to recover from his shock enough speak again. When he'd just about got there, I continued.

"Now seriously, Ani. If something's wrong with Padmé or your future child that you conveniently forgot to tell your best friend about, I want to know about it. I want to help you."

Anakin blinked a few more times, then finally sighed. He took a few steps towards me (and away from the speeder), his shoulders slumping.

"I... I've been having these dreams. I haven't been able to tell anyone but Padmé about them, and she keeps telling me they're nothing. But they weren't nothing when I was having dreams about my mother."

I closed the rest of the distance between us, putting an arm around Anakin as I eased him into sitting on one of the garden's benches, close to the edge of the parking lot. His hands shook as he held them up to emphasize his speaking, and the second he noticed, he shoved them between his legs.

"I keep having nightmares about Padmé dying with our children, as she's having them. There's something very wrong, but she won't believe me, and I can't talk to anyone else about it without telling them about our relationship. It's on me to save her. The Chancellor seemed to know, seemed to want to help me... and I don't know that I have another choice anymore."

"...Anakin. You just told me yourself that he's a Sith lord."

"But what other choice do I have?" he cried, exploding again. "I won't lose her. I won't let her die! I was too late to save my mother, I won't be too late to save Padmé. Master Windu says he doesn't trust me because he can feel my fear, but how else am I supposed to feel?"

I nodded, taking a deep breath as I put my hand on Anakin's shoulder again. He was seething, but he tolerated it.

"Your fear is valid, Anakin. If I had recurring nightmares about losing you, I'd be sticking to you like glue on missions. And that's without the factor of children! But if you starting taking rash, drastic actions as a result of that fear—like trusting a Sith lord who's been lying and manipulating his way through the Jedi for years—it might just cause exactly what you're scared of in the first place."

"So what are you saying? You're telling me I should do nothing, too?"

"No! Just... take a few deep breaths, and make your decisions with as rational a head as you can. From what I remember you telling me, Anakin, the dreams about your mom were actually visions happening in real time. And I'm sorry to remind you of that at all, but that means they were different than your dreams of Padmé. I saw her walking around the senate chambers today. She's not already dead."

Anakin took a deep breath as, to my relief, my words seemed to manage to get through to him, at least a little bit. When he spoke again, it was at a normal volume despite the words being a bit strained.

"That doesn't change the fact that she's in danger. Just because she's alright for now doesn't mean that she won't be-"

He broke off, clenching his fists and squeezing his eyes shut tight. I moved my hand from his shoulder to take both of his hands in mine.

"Has Padmé gone to her doctor lately? To check out whether anything is wrong? She's due soon, isn't she?"

"Yes. She's due soon. I don't know if she's been to a doctor since the dreams started. The Jedi... things have been keeping me from her recently."

"Well, okay then. For Padmé's sake and your own, let's sit up here and take a few deep breaths. I know that sounds like what everyone else in the Order's been telling you, but we did smash plates earlier, so I'm hoping you'll trust me. Then, once we're acknowleding the fear but making it take a backseat on decision-making, we can go see Padmé. We'll talk to her, and go see her doctor, just to check everything out and make sure it's all okay. I'll go with you to maintain the 'friendship' cover as much as possible. With all of the technology and medicine available to us, Anakin—especially since Padmé serves in the senate and you're a Jedi—any complications should be completely treatable and preventable. Then, once you're feeling alright about that, we can make a choice."

Anakin narrowed his eyes, then raised an eyebrow at me.

"And what choice is that?"

"If you want to stay with Padmé, we stay with Padmé. If you want to talk to Windu, we work together and come up with a plan for you to talk to Windu. Hopefully, by the time we get back to the Temple, he and the others will have defeated Palpatine and we can put all this behind us. But one way or another, we can practice and work out a conversation starter for you to discuss with him why he doesn't trust you, and how that makes you feel. It might not change his mind, but I really think it'll make you feel better to get it out there and talk about it with him. Calmly, though. As much as you might want to yell at him, and as nice as it might feel in the moment, it'll only make you worse off in the end. Which is why we come up here to smash plates first."

To my immense relief, that last part made Anakin crack the smallest of smiles. The knot of fear and lingering anger was still there, but much smaller, and confined to just a part of my best friend. That overwhelming knot I'd noticed earlier was almost entirely gone.

"I... think I like that plan. At least the first part of it."

"Good, then let's go do it. Just remember, Ani: I'm here for you. Odds are good that you're going to feel really scared and really angry again as we deal with the next few days. And that's normal. We just have to practice managing it, and I'm here for you whenever you need help with that."

"...Does that mean I officially get access to this place whenever I want it?" He gestured to the garden and smaller plate-smashing station around us, and I smiled.

"Sure. But you're gonna have to do some shopping for cheap plates before you come up here again. Believe it or not, I'm just about out."

"Seems like a pretty low number of plates you had up here. Aren't you supposed to be more prepared than that as a Jedi Knight?"

"Plate shopping was on my long list of errands for today. But... I ended up having more important things to do with my day."

The two of us shared a smile, and although Anakin's was weak, it felt like the sun shining down on us to me. We weren't out of the storm yet, but looking at my best friend in that moment, I knew we were both going to get to the other side okay.

****************

"Oh... my stars."

I grinned, my feeling echoing Obi-Wan's as the two of us and Ahsoka were led into the delivery room. Padmé laid in the bed, a baby cradled in her arms, and Anakin stood beside her with the other baby in his.

After Anakin and I's long talk on the roof, and after getting through some of the immediate aftermath of dealing with Chancellor Palpatine being a Sith lord, he'd finally decided to share his and Padmé's "secret" with Obi-Wan and Ahsoka, along with Rex, Cody, and a few of the other clones we'd been to hell and back with. Literally all of them had already known, but everyone other than Obi-Wan pretended to be surprised for Anakin's sake, and the knowledge meant a lot more to all of us now that Anakin had voluntarily shared it with us.

Even after all the doctor's appointments and support from his friends, I could feel the weight that had lifted from Anakin's shoulders with Padmé sitting in bed now, tired but healthy, their babies just as healthy and delivered in their arms.

"Wanna hold her? Her name's Leia," Anakin said, gently holding the baby in his arms out to Obi-Wan. He looked about knocked flat, but gingerly held his arms out all the same.

"Of course I do."

Anakin smiled, gently putting Leia into Obi-Wan's arms. Ahsoka headed over towards Padmé, and I was about to follow her when Anakin caught me, taking my arm and gently pulling me aside.

"Do you have a minute?"

I nodded, following Anakin as he led me just out of the room and into the hallway. I raised an eyebrow, but I could tell from Anakin's energy and the smile on his face that this was nothing bad.

"I have something to ask you."

"Okay... spit it out then. Dad."

Anakin's smile was enough to outshine the sun, and it warmed my heart to see him like that.

"Well, Padmé and I talked, and... since both of our lives are so dangerous, and since I may or may not be able to continue in the Order depending on how well we can continue to hide our secret..."

I scoffed, but Anakin ignored me.

"We wanted to make you the honorary, support-parent of the twins. I'm not going to let anything happen to us, but if something ever did... we want you to take them. And either way, we want you to be involved in their lives as... a mentor, of sorts."

"Anakin... I don't need a title or an official invitation to do everything I can to be in their lives. Frankly, not even death could stop me. Since Force ghosts exist and all."

Anakin grinned. "I know that. But I want you to have the title anyway. I mean, who better to help guide my kids through life than the person who made sure I didn't let my fear ruin any shot at actually seeing them?"

"...Surely someone else has told you that emotions are a normal, healthy thing for you to be feeling?"

"Believe it or not? You were the first."

I smiled, then moved forward to wrap Anakin in a tight hug. He didn't waste a second returing the gesture.

"I would be honored to play a role like that in the twins' life, Ani," I said, not letting go of him as I spoke. "Thank you for trusting me with it."

"Thank you for helping me get a hold of everything. I love Obi-Wan, but... he never managed to teach it the way you did. I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't found me when you did."

I squeezed Anakin tight, letting the seriousness live on for another moment before pulling away with a grin.

"Are you kidding me? I'll always find you, whether you want me to or not. I'm your best friend. You can't get rid of me, and you can't hide anything from me. And don't you forget it."

Anakin scoffed and rolled his eyes, but I could see how genuine the smile on his face was. I clapped him on the shoulder and took a step back towards the delivery room.

"Come on. I'm honorary guardian of the twins, and I haven't even met them yet. Obi-Wan's been holding Leia for long enough, it's my turn now."

"Good luck getting her back. Did you see the look on his face? I think I'm going to have to force him to let her go."

The two of us shared a laugh as we reentered the delivery room. The past few years of the war and the past few weeks especially had been brutal, on all of us. And there was still a lot of work to be done putting things right. But some very, very good things had come out of it, too, and no matter what came next, we'd always have each other.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen @misshale21

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multiheadcanons · 6 months ago

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EVERYONE LOVES HEAVY!

aka merc relations with heavy

scout: that’s his big guy! his violent teddy bear! scout always enjoys the rare times he and heavy hang out one on one, and while he mentally can’t recall a time he hasn’t liked heavy; he’s pretty sure it’s because his body gave him a carnal note that heavy will rip his spine out and use it as a toothpick. he does his best to keep on the russian’s good side. exchanges jokes. they’ll sit together during mealtimes if nobody has beat scout to it.

soldier: that’s essentially his second in command. slow moving as he may be, if there’s only one guy on the team who can withstand more than one rocket, which is soldiers personal best without the medigun, he knows that’s his key to the city. has convinced heavy to go out for a night on the town with him before and heavy couldn’t handle being in a car that felt like it was going to fall to pieces with every mile. they’ll still go out every so often, heavy just drives a company car instead. heavy helped him figure out how to quit blowing himself up in an attempt to rocket jump.

pyro: in pyro’s eyes, heavy is their best friend in the whole world. heavy treats pyro very gently, because heavy doesn’t know what’s under there. pyro is normally the one that beats scout to the table to sit next to heavy. yapper x listener. heavy will nod solemnly to pyros nonstop muffled conversation, and will somehow give accurate and coherent answers to what pyro’s saying, and it makes pyro implode emotionally. they’ve never felt so understood. begs for hugs. if you didn’t know you would definitely think pyro had a crush on him.

demo: that’s his bud! rocky beginnings aside, they chat regularly on and off the battlefield. can occasionally beat pyro to the table to have his gab session with heavy. on the rare occasions they get to go home, they’ll ship each other alcohol from their home countries. demo doesn’t know, but heavy has kept the first bottle unbroken and sitting in his room at the base. all other bottles got drank. they also exchange jokes. they’ve tried their hand at opening a distillery in the base for some extra money. it didn’t go well. but they still laugh about it (and occasionally spend a week or two making bathtub gin to share. there was a time scout entered the bathroom for some bathtub gin and they were sitting in it, ass naked, off their rockers.)

engineer: engie is one of two people who don’t really interact with heavy enough to have a solid relationship with him. but there was a time on the battlefield that engie was getting swarmed. he had his back to the wall, and was defending his nest as best as he could. the enemy team almost destroyed everything before he heard heavy’s guttural yell and the almost silent whir of natascha build up, with medic of course being right behind him as they rounded the corner. watching the enemy team drop like flies, and watching that hulk of a man eat bullet after bullet after rocket after bullet for his little nest… it brought him to tears. he almost swooned. he yelled his thanks after him, he doesn’t know if heavy heard him over the satisfaction of bloodlust. heavy doesn’t know, but if he ever needed anything, the texan will be right behind him to help. mad scientist’d the distillery idea and electrocuted himself to the respawn machine.

medic: oh, doc’s definitely got a crush. the whole reason why everyone else fights for the one seat next to heavy is because medic is consistently on his right side. yapper x listener. storied history aside; they are a wonderful duo and make a great team. their chemistry is electric. it’s like they can read each others minds sometimes. heavy keeps medic cool headed; and the doctor will ignite heavy unlike anyone else. has joined in on the bathtub gin soaks between heavy and demo. medic’s taken rockets for heavy on the field, smiled and winked as his body was torn apart, and made his way back to heavy’s side always just in time before he’s to follow the doctors path to the respawn room. if doc can’t be there, he’s always sure to warn heavy he’ll be without support and to not die. if medic could, he would cut heavy open and live inside his skin. he would carefully remove his organs and place them in jars of formaldehyde and put those jars in a safety deposit box to keep for the rest of his natural and unnatural life. if they’re not within eyesight of each other, something is very wrong. and he thinks heavy’s cute to boot. stole a shirt from him just to have it. in case they never see each other again. he’s really grown fond of heavy throughout the years. heavy would’ve let him have it if he asked, he never wears it. he currently doesn’t even know it’s missing.

snipes: they’re like the team parents. snipes is the emotionally distant dad. they’ll chat about the silliness of their teammates, and comiserate in their idiocy. the only guy snipes goes out of his way to play a card game with. he likes heavy’s unique takes on things. likes how he’s family oriented. they have both been support systems for having hard talks with their family, because they’re the only two people who get the ache of not being with their families. he keeps an eye on heavy and medic in battle, and does what he can to keep them safe. he can’t protect heavy without also watching his doctor. if heavy spots him in his nest, they’ll wave at each other.

spy: spy is not quite sure how he’s supposed to feel about heavy. he’s currently neutral. he’s seen the man act like an absolute fool before. he’s also seen that man take control of situations on and off the battlefield. he knows he’s not dumb. he registers that heavy is intelligent, and capable, and perceptive. he just doesn’t know what he actually thinks about him. stalks him regularly while cloaked to get a better read on him. is almost… jealous of medic’s closeness to the man, despite their famed first interactions with each other. he’s not sure how to make a move into becoming his “friend”. gets awkward when he tries to speak to him.

#team fortress 2 #team fortress two #tf2 demo #tf2 demoman #tf2 engineer #tf2 heavy #tf2 medic #tf2 pyro #tf2 scout #tf2 sniper #tf2 soldier #tf2 spy

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fanaticsnail · 7 months ago

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Stolen Moment

Masterlist here

Word Count: 1,700+

Synopsis: Too much time had passed between the rare moments you and your partner found for one another. You both decide to rectify that by doing something as simple as sharing the same Crowsnest and painting your lover's fingernails.

Themes: Wire x gn!reader, fluff, crass language, romance, established relationship, size difference, love, fingernail painting, kisses, comfort, sweet domesticity, sfw.

Notes: For @daydreamer-in-training who has found a new love for this tall commander. We needed him all sweet, didn't we, Coco? I hope you enjoy him being tender and giving kisses.

The sweet cry's of gulls echo in the cloud over above your position in the crows nest. Long, lanky legs lay over the top railing, the rustle of newspaper pages and a soft hum swelled a soothing warmth to the small piece of tranquility you carved for yourself.

The scent of seaspray was tainted by the manufactured chemical varnish bottle held in your fingertips, wafting to your nose the closer you found your prize. Your tongue darted from your mouth as you focused wholeheartedly on capping a larger index finger with a deep mahogany shade. With one hand holding your victim steady, the other hand meticulously applied the lacquer from the cuticle half-moon to the tips sanded to a rounded crescent.

As a little of the tint slipped over the border, you drew your thumbnail up to rid it of the blemish in a quick swipe. A gruff cough broke you from your fussing and prompted you to turn your head towards the sound.

“You know, any closer your face gets to my nails, and that tint will be staining your pupils, little mouse.” He drew the corner of his lips up into a half-smile, refusing to tear his eyes away from the newspaper as he spoke, “Also, it would bring me great pleasure if you stopped holding my hand hostage. Makes it hard to turn the page.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes and turning back towards your task, glaring at the varnish with a critiquing eye.

“You're a smart guy. Figure out how to turn the page one handed.” You continued painting the layer until you were satisfied the entire bed was covered in the perfect consistency. Giving the digit a small squeeze to alert him you were done, he instinctively pointed his next finger upwards as an invitation to continue painting. “And while you're at it, smart guy, find a way for your lap to be more comfortable.”

Wire chuckled at your comment as he folded the newspaper in his hand, peeling back a fresh page with his fingers and awkwardly turning it to the next slide. Rolling the thin paper in his hands, he feigned his focus on the next paragraph while enjoying the pleasure of your attention while attending to his nails.

It was a small luxury to find time to yourselves amongst a crew of over thirty. There were so many bodies moving on the larger ship that days seemed to blur together. Every day, the same routine: get up, get to the dining room, eat breakfast, get chore rotation, complete first rounds, have lunch, more chores, and then dinner. After dinner, there were meetings for the commanders, and shift change for the night watch to take over for the day shift.

Each time you and your lover found time for each other, moments were stolen and the other found themselves preoccupied with their duties.

But not today.

Not with the tranquility of the afternoon sun beginning to set in the evening sky over the horizon. Not in this silence of simply sharing in one another's company. Not as you felt his thighs shift and adjust you to a better position while nestled on his much larger frame.

Simply folding his paper over once more, he placed it on the side table and removed his ankles from dangling over the railing. With his unoccupied hand, he snaked it around your waist and buried his forehead in the crook of your neck. His soft exhales of breath tickled the skin and erupted it into soft pebbles as the follicles rose. You could feel the flutters of his dark eyelashes kiss your skin as his lids met together.

“How's this?” he whispered softly while smoothing over your waist with his thumb in soothing circles, “More comfortable?” You scoffed at him, rolling your eyes and moving on to the final nail.

Slowly dabbing the brush within the tint, you raised the mahogany hue to his littlest finger and slowly rolled it over the hard surface. Every nook of his nail was now painted with the hue of your choosing. You carefully screwed the lid back onto the bottle with the brush on the inside before setting the jar down to your side. Slowly rising his larger fingers up, you purse your lips and release a small stream of air through the taut circle.

Wire chuckled at your action, slowly nuzzling his head against your back and drinking in your attention. Through your careful attentiveness, he felt as if he, at his over nine foot statute, was made of glass. So careful, so delicate, so soft: all of those things were displayed in your adoration in something so simple as painting his nails for him in a hue that matched your own. Each small exhale parting from your lips caused his heart and eyes to flutter in delight.

He felt the lacker slowly dry as it hardened beneath your breath just as you realised it in unison. Without much thinking, he simply opened up the gaps in his fingers and laced your own fingers within. You clicked your tongue at his action, mocking displeasure, while you steadied his hand within your own. The size difference between you and your lover only seemed to intensify in this shared moment. His skin tone against yours, finally feeling the warmth after too many days passing between you, all of it was almost too much for your heart to take.

In lieu of unlacing his hand from yours, you simply drew it up to your heart and melted back into his embrace from behind. His thighs were soft, his skin was warm, his breathing was steady, and the moment felt as still as the pictures in the newspaper he was reading moments ago. Neither of you wanted to break the spell for fear it would end too soon, but you wanted to see your lover in all his unshrouded glory.

Slowly rolling your head behind you, you met his eyes with your own. The chocolate hue was as unmasked as his salt and peppered hair, shimmering in the light you shared together in the crows nest. Without a single word, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your temple and held you closer within his embrace. You both closed your eyes on the impact, relishing in something so intimate and beautiful as a small kiss to your skin before he pulled away. He opened his eyes first, watching as your lashes slowly drew back to gaze at him.

“Finished that hand then, little mouse?” He purred down at you, slowly nudging the place his lips had just descended with his nose, “How do I look?”

“About the same as you always do, commander,” you shrug with a small tease laden in your tone.

“Tall, dark, and handsome, then?” he quipped in return, leaning back and drawing you further into his chest while cradling you against him. You scrunch up your nose playfully and nudge his chest with the crown of your head in response.

“Like a cockroach in lingerie.” You fluttered your eyelashes mischievously, smiling as innocent as a child caught with their hand in a forbidden snack jar.

Wire’s eyes widened briefly as his throat choked at your insult. Just as he began to grimace at your insult, you turned to straddle his lap and placed your hands on either side of his cheeks. Immediately surging forward, you claimed his lips beneath yours in a kiss that felt long neglected. Mouthing at his lips, you entangled your hands in the greying locks beside his ears while your palms pressed against his carefully fashioned facial hair.

Tilting and turning your head, you drank your fill of his off guard affections in every kiss you stole before his mind caught up to his experience. Just as you made to release his lips from yours, your hair was immediately entangled with his larger digits in a harder, fiery, and more deliberate kiss. You squeaked into his mouth, causing him to chuckle into yours before forging a bruised elevation against your skin.

Pulling away breathless, you gazed into your lover's eyes and slowly scraped your nose against his. Both of your eyes were half-lidded as you drew deep lungfuls of breath to balloon in your chests.

“You're a little shit sometimes, mouse,” he growled playfully at you, raising his lips to your forehead and pressing a smaller kiss to its center.

“Yes,” you admit with a smile, pulling away and gazing lovingly at him, “But I'm your little shit, Wire.” He leaned in towards you, darting his eyes between yours before a smile bloomed over his lips.

“You're as much my little shit as I am your cockroach in lingerie, mouse,” he fluttered his eyes innocently before pulling away his face and glaring at the newspaper. “Now, can I focus on turning the pages before you attack my other hand, or-?”

“-Nope. Other hand, now, commander,” you shrugged at him, turning back around on his lap and looking at the naked surface area, “Still good with the mahogany color, or do you want something different?”

“If it matches yours, I don't care what color you paint me,” he shrugged, darting his eyes over your head and down your back until he reached your waist, “I enjoy matching with you, mouse. Makes it feel like we're close, even when we're doing our duties away from one another.” He leaned down, pressing a small kiss to the center of your neck and whispered against your skin, “Better get a move on, mouse, before the captain takes this moment from us.”

“You got it, commander.” You retrieved the bottle and unscrewed the brush from the tip, ensuring the lacquer covered the strands of the brush while readying his hand.

At each swipe to his digits, he forgot more and more about the paper, and simply paid attention to the way your face concentrated on something so simple. Each swipe, dap, blotch, clean, and border was done so carefully, he could tangibly feel the love you placed on him with every stroke.

The gulls continued to skree within the sky as the sun slowly cascaded over the horizon before you. Yellows faded to pinks and purples, as blues and whites dusted the cloud cover above you both. He had never felt more in love in any moment prior, and you felt your heart quicken in exactly the same rapidity. You were his little mouse, he was your giant cockroach in lingerie, and neither of you would have it any other way than this moment stolen amongst the chaos of a crew as large as the Kid Pirates.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @ane5e

#one piece #x reader #op wire #one piece wire #wire x reader #one piece fluff #kid pirate reader #kid pirates #one piece fanfiction

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lipglossanon · 1 year ago

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Gloom

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Serial Killer!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader <one shot>

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, troubled reader, violent/dark thoughts, flirting, Leon abusing his bartender privileges 😆, for once no smut!

not proofread; this has been languishing in my drafts and I’m tired of looking at it—don’t know if I’ll add to it or not

title from Gloom by Djo

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Clawing anger stirs in your chest, pricking you like the briar bushes outside your granny’s house. It feels like you’ve tumbled face first into the thorny tendrils, pointed tips digging into your skin, blood dripping like sweat across your skin. Shaking off the phantom sensations, you peer back out across the dance floor.

You smile, pretending to be happy, mask firmly in place. Good people grin and bear it, don’tcha know? Eyes landing on the table full of people you’d rather never see again, almost without conscious thought, makes your skin itch. The feeling of unfairness fizzes in your blood like carbon bubbles. You hate them. Hate these feelings all stirred up like a kicked hornets nest.

You hope they get hit by a truck, shanked in an alley, acid thrown in their eyes. It’s hateful and spiteful but you can’t stop the thoughts once they start. Maybe they’ll fall down the stairs and break their leg, bleed out a slow death all alone. Or pushed off the roof of a building, not so tall they have a heart attack before splattering across the cement. Maybe they’ll trip holding a pair of scissors, the pointed end puncturing their eye—

“You need another drink?”

The voice pulls you away from staring across the room to the bartender standing behind the counter.

“No,” you shake your head, eyes dropping to your glass, water still near the rim.

“You seem a bit perturbed,” he offers, propping his hip against the drink station, arms crossing and showcasing his thick biceps.

“It’s nothing,” your airy response only makes his eyebrows raise in amusement.

“I’m sure that group over at the table would love to hear how they’re nothing,” he grins when you glare at him.

“What do you care..” your eyes glance at his name tag, “Leon?”

“I don’t,” he shrugs easily, “but you do and I hate to see a pretty lady in distress.”

You snort, eyes rolling, “I’ll bet you say that to anyone with tits.”

His grin widens, “True, but I always mean what I say.”

Someone on the other end flags his attention and Leon leaves you to your intrusive thoughts and untouched water. Your lip curls in a sneer as someone gets up from the table he mentioned and walks over to the bar. They flirt with Leon who you notice gives you a quick side eye before making a round of drinks.

Once he’s finished up, he walks back over to you with a smarmy little swagger.

“Miss me?”

You shake your head, gaze still zeroed in on the bitch taking the handful of drinks he just made back to the table. More people come up to the bar and Leon slips away, busy for several long minutes. While he’s mixing whatever cocktail an older lady and her friend ordered, your eyes widen in surprise to see a few people at that specific table suddenly make their departure towards the restroom.

“It didn’t kick in as fast as I thought,” Leon muses next to you— a little put upon sigh slipping out for good measure, “they’ll definitely be calling it a night once they’re not puking their guts out.”

Delightful vindictiveness makes you smile broadly at him; it must surprise him because he only looks at you stupidly as you thank him.

“Didn’t I tell you I hate seeing a pretty lady in distress,” he recovers quickly enough, a pleased smile making him seem boyish and sweet, “besides they seem like stuck up cunts. And not the fun kind.”

You watch with a sort of childlike awe as he goes about the rest of his shift, chatting up customers and making drinks. The table of cunts, as he so politely put, cleared out once the others returned looking sick.

“I’m off work in ten minutes,” he appears next to you, making you jump.

“And?”

He drums his fingers on the side of your glass, “Might wanna get your last call in before I walk you home for the night.”

He slips away before you can argue and ten minutes later, he’s helping you with your coat and holding open the door. Once you’re a comfortable distance away from the bar, you turn to him.

“What did you use?”

“Ah,” he taps the side of his nose with a grin, “that would be telling.”

Your eyes narrow and he laughs.

“Just a little something I like to keep on me,” he ducks to the side to whisper in your ear, “it’s not the worst thing I’ve used on someone.”

He pulls away, looking pleased as punch, and it makes your heart flutter in excitement.

“Thanks,” you offer, looking back to the sidewalk in front of you, “it was nice.”

“Oh my absolute pleasure,” he sighs happily, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, “do they come in every week?”

“Yes,” you bite your lip in thought, “usually at the same time.”

“Shall I give them something a bit stronger then?” He murmurs quietly, eyes glittering when you pause to look back at him.

“There’s something wrong with me.”

You didn’t mean to blurt that out, but it is what it is; he shrugs, total nonchalance, that makes you frown.

“I want them to hurt. I want them to feel awful. I wouldn’t mind if they died.”

His smile’s a sharp brittle knife, “I can help with that last one.”

Your heart flutters again, and you twist to face him fully.

“You mean that?” Your eyes stare into his calm blue gaze, “you don’t even know me.”

“Does it matter?” He grins playfully, “besides you seem like the kind of girl who would appreciate it.”

Those intrusive thoughts come back, flashing the various ways you’ve pictured those same people being hurt. Your hands reach up to curl your fingers in the collar of his jacket.

“Do you want help?”

He laughs delightedly, his own hands gripping your hips before sliding up to pet your ribs. He slides your noses together, before hovering his lips over your mouth.

“How do you want to help me, sweetheart?”

#leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy #resident evil fanfiction #serial killer!leon kennedy #fem!reader

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rookinthecrownest · 7 months ago

Text

Bedtime Stories For a Demon, Night 5: The Shoes That Were Danced To Pieces (Lucanis x Rook Fanfic)

The streets of Treviso are eerily silent tonight. As if the city itself has become the quiet before the storm.

Madeleina Mercar and Lucanis Dellamorte weave in and out of abandoned buildings and leap between rooftops, two shifting black dots in a dark landscape. They move quickly, and with purpose.

Earlier that night, a letter had come through from Viago.

One of his Crows had captured a Venatori spy, caught lurking about the Drowned District. The unlucky cultist was dragged into the den of the Fifth Talon, and like one of Viago’s snakes, had been milked for every last drop of usefulness they could provide.

“How’d they get him to talk?” Madeleina asked, as she scanned the contents of Viago’s missive by flickering candlelight. “I can’t imagine the Venatori spill their secrets easily”

“Viago has his ways.”

Why did he have to name his truth serum Pillow Talk.

“… Let’s just say he can be very persuasive”

Madeleina looked up from the letter and quirked an eyebrow. She was clearly expecting more details, but when he remained silent, she dropped it.

“The specifics don’t matter” Lucanis gently pried the letter from her hands and set it on the nearby table. “What matters is we have a location. Viago has his Crows watching the Venatori. We’ll move when you’re ready”

She grinned, “No time like the present – let’s go”

We’ll make her pay, for everything she did to you. Side by side. I swear it.

Her words hang in front of him like a beacon lighting the path to the Chantry. When he turns them over in his head again, the undercurrents of Spite’s glee reverberate through his body. It sends a shiver down his spine.

Her Heart. On Our Knife. Rook’s lightning. At Our backs. A cackle echoes in his head. The Witch. Dies today.

Tonight, he would have his revenge. For himself. For Spite. And for Caterina.

For a moment, he’s back to the Ossuary. His hands and legs chained down to the stone slab beneath him. He remembers the chafing of the metal cuffs around his wrists and ankles, the skin red and raw. Remembers the hunger. The fear. He was too tired to struggle against the bindings. His objective shifted from escape to survive soon after arriving.

“From flying vermin to malicious spirit. That’s quite the promotion, isn’t it, Master Dellamorte?” Zara pinched his cheek with a long, slender finger. It took every ounce of discipline he had not to recoil at her cold touch. Her full, red lips pulled back in a sneer. He could smell her sickly-sweet perfume as she leaned in. It turned his empty stomach.

“Well, then. Let’s make a real Demon out of you, hm?”

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Madeleina calls over her shoulder, pulling him out of the past. She is already half-way up the ladder to the overhang above them when she realizes Lucanis isn’t following. Pausing on the rungs, she cranes her neck to look back at him, “Facing Zara, I mean”

He lifts his gaze to meet hers. Tries to keep maintain eye contact instead of staring elsewhere.

“I lost a year of my life to that Venatori Witch” He begins, before climbing up himself. “I owe her for that”

They both reach the overhang and squeeze out of a broken window on the top floor of the warehouse. The two land soundlessly on the side-roof jutting from just below the window sill. Just one more rooftop until they reach the Chantry.

As Lucanis follows Rook’s careful steps, he remembers his dissatisfaction at traversing the rooftops in Vyrantium a year ago. The harsh slopes and rounded clay tiles made a poor foothold even for his perfectly cobbled boots. But the rooftops of Treviso are flatter, the inclines less harsh, and made of interlocking shingles rather than layered tiles. Very friendly for a Crow looking to sneak around. All of Treviso, with its dark, narrow streets, high vantage points, and closely connected rooftops, was practically designed for them. A Crow’s nest made a city.

Madeleina jumps down from the side-roof and onto a balcony overlooking the Chantry courtyard. He watches her come to rigid halt a few steps ahead of him. He can just barely make out another figure in the darkness.

Illario?

Lucanis wastes no time jumping down to the balcony, coming to stand beside Madeleina. She’s close enough now he can feel the tension coiling around her body. Her mouth is set into a hard line, and her eyes fixate on Illario.

So, she was just as thrown off by his appearance at the Chantry as he was. Good. He can get right to the point without preamble.

“Illario - what are you doing here?” Lucanis asks, his voice low.

Illario smiles widely as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m coming with you, of course. No arguments”

Mierda.

“This is my job” Lucanis says firmly, his hands clenching into fists at his side.

“This is Crow business” Illario corrects him. He feels a muscle in his jaw tick.

“How did you even know we’d be here?” If the contents of Viago’s letter were anything to go by, only he and Madeleina should be privy to this information. From the corner of his eye, he can see the weariness settle more firmly onto her features. She folds her arms over her chest and frowns deeply.

Illario seems to notice the shift in her demeanour. He ignores Lucanis’ question and turns to address her instead. He plasters on an insincere, charming smile. The same one Lucanis has seen him use to seduce countless targets. From the way Madeleina’s brows draw further down, he surmises it has the opposite effect on her. Good.

“Rook” He all but purrs her moniker, and for a brief moment Lucanis is thankful Illario doesn’t know her real name. The tone of his voice sets both him and Spite on edge. “Always a pleasure. Touring the city with my cousin?” He pauses to gesture to Lucanis with a sultry grin. “You must allow me to show you the sights”

Madeleina’s voice is stern, almost biting, when she answers, “Lucanis told you not to come”.

He is silently grateful she’s not encouraging Illario. Even more grateful, a small part of him thinks, that his cousin’s attempts at flirting backfire so spectacularly. He can count on one hand the number of times that’s happened. Once Illario realizes his usual approach won’t do him any credit with Madeleina, his face settles into a more neural expression – a little too quickly.

Lucanis decides to interject before he can get a word in edgewise, “This isn’t your type of job, cousin.” He means to needle him about his earlier attempt at Madeleina. He’s not sure whether that’s more him or Spite. “There’s no one you can charm here. Only fanatics. All you can do is get yourself killed”

His words land with the desired effect, if only for a moment. There’s a brief flicker of annoyance in his eyes that only someone who has spent many years with Illario would be able to pick up. It’s gone as soon as it came, now replaced by a challenging stare.

“You think I’m not good enough” He doesn’t phrase it as a question.

“Are you?” Lucanis retorts, tilting his head, throwing the challenge right back at him.

Illario’s nostrils flare. There is concession, but not defeat in his eyes. He settles for a placating smile, but Lucanis has a sinking feeling in his gut that whatever is going on with his cousin will not pass so easily. Perhaps it’s the overly saccharine way he concedes or perhaps it’s the uncharacteristically light tone in his voice given the subject matter. He bows his head, “Fine, have it your way cousin.”

Before Illario turns to leave, he lets out a bitter chuckle. “You always know best, after all”. And without another word, he disappears into the night.

He shakes his head. There’s no time to worry about Illario’s antics right now. Lucanis Dellamorte has a target. And he always collects.

You find her and cut her heart out, Lucanis.

“Let’s go, Zara’s waiting”

Lucanis doesn’t wait for Madeleina to catch up before he starts making for the Chantry courtyard.

She follows him soundlessly, like a shadow.

~*~

“Amatu- “

A sickening crack as Zara’s neck is snapped by Illario, who dropped down from the ceiling just a moment earlier.

She doesn’t have time to think about the implication of what she just heard. Zara’s final words are pushed to the back of her mind as an anguished cry escapes her companion’s lips.

“No! Mine!” Lucanis and Spites voices meld together, all rage and hurt and betrayal, reverberating through the Chantry in a familiar discordant symphony. His purple and black wings unfurl. A high-pitched whistling fills the Chantry, like the firing of an Antaam canon. Then, Illario is sent flying back by a blast of magical energy shooting out of Lucanis. Madeleina is knocked back a few steps from the sheer force of it.

A second later, Lucanis – or rather Spite controlling Lucanis’ body, is on Illario. The dagger in his hand comes down, ready to kill his cousin. A scream tears through his chest as Illario resists, his arms the only thing between him and the dagger’s edge. Lucanis’ face is a twisted mask of hurt and anguish. When he speaks next, his voice is strained. There’s more of him than Spite, like he’s fighting the demon to even get the words out.

“Get. Illario … Out!” He cries over his shoulder, eyes burning like bright, purple sapphires. His arm inches the dagger closer and closer to Illario’s neck, acting of its own accord.

“What? No – “

I won’t leave you here alone.

She winces and stumbles closer. Another pained yell reverberates through the chantry.

“Rook!” His eyes are pleading. He’s losing the struggle against Spite’s rage, and fast. The dagger is almost touching Illario’s neck now, just about to draw blood, “I can’t –! “

“That’s enough!” Shouts Illario, and he does something that Madeleina can’t see from where she’s standing. But she can sense it. Even smell it.

Blood magic.

A plume of red erupts from Illario’s chest. It slams into Lucanis, knocking him back onto his forearms. The heady scent of iron and blood and sulphur fills the air. She can taste a metallic tang on her tongue.

Illario pulls himself to stand and puts his hand out in front of him like he’s commanding a dog to sit. The sight of it turns her stomach.

“Relent” Lucanis’ head swivels, she can see the whites of his eyes as they roll back. “Somniare”. He falls unconscious and his head hits the stone floor with a crack.

Madeleina is behind him not a moment later, cradling his head in her hands. She breathes a sigh of relief when she can’t feel any blood pooling in his hair.

“Lucanis? Lucanis wake up” she whispers, shaking him by the shoulders. When he doesn’t stir, she looks up at Illario, eyes burning with rage. “Venhedis. What the fuck did you do to him, Illario?” She snarls.

“Nothing” Illario says, straightening to his full height. “I don’t know what happened any more than you”

Liar.

“You have to get him out of here” Illario points to Lucanis, still unconscious in her arms. When he turns towards the door, Madeleina calls after him. She has about a million questions swarming her thoughts like wasps kicked from their nest.

“Illario, don’t you dare lea-!”

“Rook. Keep him away from Treviso. From the Crows” His voice is low and even. Too calm, for what he just did. “He’s a danger to the family”.

She stares in disbelief as Illario Dellamorte disappears from the Chantry. He leaves Lucanis and Madeleina alone in the basement chamber. Well, sort of. Madeleina is not Emmrich, and she doesn’t count the dead bodies of several Venatori and Zara Renata as company.

“Shit”

She wished, more than anything, she had prodded Emmrich’s brain about a healing spell rather than learning to summon wisps.

Wait.

Wisps.

Using what remained of her magic, she called forth a bouncing ball of familiar blue-green light from the Fade. It’s light chittering filled the silence of the Chantry as it floated in front of her face, bouncing on an invisible air current.

“Find Viago de Riva. Bring him here. Can you do that?” The Wisp zips around her head, before phasing through the far wall. She prays it understands the command. There’s nothing she can do except wait for help. She won’t leave him alone. Not here.

She shakes him gently by the shoulders again, “Come on Lucanis, wake up. Please, wake up”.

The faint smell of blood and sulphur still lingers on him.

Blood magic. She was still grappling with the fact that Illario had used blood magic to control Spite. To control Lucanis. How? Why?

Madeleina bites her lip. Her fingers curl softly against the fine, dark leather of Lucanis’ armor. Zara’s final words come rushing back and hit her like a tidal wave.

Amatus.

She was about to say Amatus.

Dread settles in her chest as she comes to a chilling realization.

Illario Dellamorte and Zara Renata were lovers.

Venhedis.

Illario had to be the one who sold Lucanis out. There was no other explanation that made sense.

The longer she thinks about it, the faster the pieces start clicking together like the whirring gears on one of Bellara’s machines. There were a million little things about Illario’s behaviour that never sat right with her. When looked at separately, they were never overtly suspicious. But taken together, they paint quite a damning picture.

Each fact clicks neatly into place with the one that comes after it, like a line of collapsing tin soldiers.

Illario avoided coming down to the Ossuary with them, and the same night, Caterina was killed. He tried to throw Lucanis off Zara’s trail by convincing him that she was back in Minrathous. His strange behaviour at Caterina’s funeral. His knowledge of where they’d be tonight. Killing Zara just before she revealed who sold Lucanis out. And most damning of all, the fact that he could control Spite with Blood magic.

She bites her lip.

Kaffas. How am I supposed to tell him the last member of his family sold him out.

Lucanis still isn’t waking.

Madeleina watches the soft rise and fall of his chest, worried that if she looks away for even a moment, he might stop breathing.

“Please wake up” Her voice hitches.

His head is resting on her knees. She’s afraid to move him. Afraid to leave. She has to trust the Wisp she sent after Viago will bring help soon. She’s also furious that his own home is no longer safe for him. Not while as Illario is running around with the ability to control Lucanis and Spite with Blood magic.

She brushes a stray lock of hair from his cheek and tucks it behind his ear. Let’s her fingers drift across his skin, her touch feather-light, for a brief moment before pulling away. Madeleina isn’t used to seeing him like this. He rarely sleeps at the Lighthouse. She would know, given all the nights she stays awake with him telling stories. She tries, at the cost of her own sleep, to make his long, waking hours less lonely. Madeleina wonders if he’s dreaming of better days. Prays he’s not stuck in some terrible nightmare, lest it fuel Spite’s wrath. The last thing anyone needed tonight was for the demon to claw his way to the surface again and wreak havoc in the streets looking for Illario.

She sighs, and stares aimlessly at the arched ceiling of the Chantry basement.

It was going to be a long night for both of them.

~*~

Lucanis Dellamorte has forgotten what a good night’s sleep feels like.

Only, this didn’t feel like sleep. It felt like stasis. Paralysis. Even Spite didn’t stir.

He did not dream, he did not feel. There was only crushing, oppressive darkness in every direction. Like he had been dropped to the bottom of a black ocean.

Lucanis regains movement in his fingertips first. Then his toes. And then, he can move his legs – but only a little. They pedal back and forth a few times as he tests out his strength. A groan escapes his lips. His lips feel dry, and his mouth is thick with the taste of cotton. His eyelids are leaden weights that are slow to lift.

Once he can blink away the tears clouding his vision, the familiar roof of his pantry bedroom comes into focus.

Back at the Lighthouse.

“… Mmmh…” he groans again. As some of his strength returns to him, he’s able to push himself upright. His head is throbbing something fierce. “…Mierda…” He hisses, when his mouth can finally form words.

A moment later, he hears something shift beside him. His head snaps to the side, and he’s ready to pull the hidden dagger he keeps under his pillow. But Lucanis settles, lets the tension uncoil from his body, when he sees Madeleina Mercar asleep in a chair next to his cot.

She has her knees pulled up tight to her chest, her head resting atop her folded arms. Madeleina’s face is curtained by a mass of brown curls. Her head slowly lifts, and her eyes flutter open.

“Madeleina” All Lucanis can do is whisper her name because he’s tired, everything hurts, and he can’t think straight.

She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and yawns. “Lucanis” Her voice is low, husky. “You’re awake”

He wonders how long she’s been sitting in that chair. She’s still wearing her mage’s overcoat, the same armour she wore when they confronted Zara. Black leather with a gold trim – a serpent in the middle of her chest. All sharp angles and harsh lines, in the Tevinter fashion. It was a stark contrast to the roundness of her cheeks, the fullness of her lips and the softness of her curls.

Lucanis swings his legs over the side of the bed and leans on his forearms. Flashes of their confrontation with Zara play on a loop in his mind.

Illario killing Zara. The terror of losing control to Spite. The way he came tearing through his mental barrier and took over so quickly it gave him whiplash, while Lucanis sunk into the recesses of his mind. A passenger in his own body. Illario’s neck beneath his blade. Begging Madeleina to get Illario out of there. Fear in her wide eyes. And then, overwhelming, oppressive darkness.

He remembers rage. So. Much. Rage.

He almost killed Illario. What if he lost control again? What if he hurt someone else?

What if he hurt her?

At the thought of hurting Madeleina, the demon ripples underneath his skin, and prods the edges of his consciousness.

Smells like thunderstorms and blood. Spite hisses. Sulphur and ash and iron. She’s never. Right. Anymore.

And who’s fault is that, he wonders bitterly.

She’s looking at him. Her gaze is soft. Always too soft. Even when he failed to take down Ghilan’nain at Weishaupt. There’s never blame, or anger, or judgement. She always has some way to justify being kind to him, even if he thinks he doesn’t deserve it.

Search as he may for something else, he only ever finds patience. Peace. Understanding. And that’s terrifying to him, because he’s never known that before. Caterina loved him… in her way. But he knew the back of her cane as well as he knew a comforting hand.

“I …” Lucanis starts, but the words die on his tongue, reeled back into his mind until he can form them into a proper sentence. Madeleina tilts her head and rests her cheek on her arm. Her legs pull in just a little closer to her body.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what to say to you”

She blinks slowly. “What do you mean?”

“There… there aren’t words enough to apologize” He answers, his voice low, but even. Just barely. She looks confused at the apology, her brows drawing together. “I never wanted you to see me like that”

A quiet settles between them. Madeleina looks thoughtful.

Her knees slide down the chair and there’s a soft thud when her boots land on the stone floor.

“And yet I’m still here”

He could swear his heart stops in his chest. Lucanis doesn’t know what he expected her to say. Anything but that. He hangs his head, rather pathetically, if he’s being honest with himself.

Why? He wants to ask, but his lips won’t move, held together by some invisible seal.

What could he, an abomination, offer her except for problems and pain and misery? What could he, an assassin, give her anything but death?

She. Won’t. Hurt us. Spite whispers. He said that the first day they met too. Hers was the first kind voice, kind eyes he’d seen in a year. Spite didn’t forget that either.

“I …”

“Hey” She whispers quietly, before he feels her fingers gently lifting his chin. As soft as he’d imagined. Warm and comforting like he’d hoped. Her jade green eyes still have a habit of making the rest of the world disappear. “Lucanis, there’s nothing to apologize for. Really”

There is. There’s so much to apologize for.

I failed to kill your God. I could’ve killed you. I’m no good. We’re no good.

His thoughts whir about themselves, twisting and morphing together into new things he wants to say, new things he feels he should apologize for. New reasons why what he desperately wants – this thing they’ve been dancing around, is a bad idea.

When she pulls away, he wants, more than anything, to reach out and place her hand back on his face. To keep that warmth there just a little bit longer. Linger in the softness rarely afforded to someone like him.

“Listen” She folds her hands in her lap, “We have a few hours before the rest of the team will be up. I think… I think there’s a story you should hear”

“Madeleina, we have to talk- “

“About Illario, I know. We will. Tomorrow”

He wants to argue but knows it’s pointless with her. She only has to look at him a certain way and the resistance will die on his tongue. Lucanis runs a hand down his face, and sighs.

"Fine. But first, coffee”

~*~

Sometime later, the pair find themselves in front of the fireplace once more. There’s fresh coffee, and some leftover dessert from two nights ago – Nevarran Hazelnut Torte, a recipe from Emmrich’s late mother. It had become a fast favourite around the Lighthouse, to the Professor’s delight.

Madeleina’s cake is untouched. It was very unusual for her, given how voracious her sweet tooth is. Lucanis has watched her put away a dozen churros like they were grains of rice. Where does it all go?

He’s not used to seeing her in armour around the Lighthouse either. The large overcoat dwarfs her and makes her look smaller than she really is. It’s never that apparent in the heat of battle since they’re usually trying their best not to die from the monster-du-jour. He briefly wonders if she’s overheating in it, being this close to the warmth of the fireplace.

“So, what tale will you tell tonight – uhh … this morning” He quickly corrects himself. One can never be certain about the time in the Fade. Sometimes, when he thinks it’s close to dawn, he can hear waves crashing in the distance.

“Have you ever heard the Orlesian tale of The Shoes that Were Danced to Pieces?”

“I haven’t” Lucanis swirls his coffee a few times before taking a sip. “But I assume I’m about to”

“Mmm” She hums, with a slight frown. “Indeed”

There’s something different about the way she’s starting tonight’s tale. He can’t quite put his finger on it. So, he lets her continue without interruption, hoping to glean the reason through the course of her story.

Her hands alight with blue flame, she sweeps her forearm across the air like she’s swatting a fly. In her wake, twelve figures spring to life, each one more beautiful than the last. The women are dressed in classic Orlesian ballet attire, and each has a thin, delicate band across their forehead.

“Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a King and his twelve Princesses” The figure of the King appears, perched on a floating throne above his daughters. The King’s face is weathered by time, and even though he is an illusion, there is a deep sorrow in his eyes.

The King disappears and twelve beds, arranged in concentric circles appear. Each princess appears next to one of the beds.

“All the Princesses sleep together in one room. And each night, the King bolts the door shut”

“Strange thing to do” he remarks, between bites of Torte. “Even for an Orlesian” Lucanis snickers.

“Stranger still is the reason” Madeleina continues. She waves a hand through the illusion, and it disappears, now replaced by the King. He’s holding a pair of ballet shoes, which have been completely worn through.

“Every night, the King seals the girls in their room. And every morning, their brand-new dancing shoes are discovered to be worn through from dancing. No one, not even his wisest scholars or most sensible hunters could figure out how. So, the King puts out a proclamation” She raises her hand, and the figure of the King stands from his throne, holding the worn-out shoe in an outstretched hand. “’Whoever discovers the secret of my daughter’s dancing shoes, may marry one and take my place as King when I die’”

The figure of the King disappears, and in his place, is a young man in an intricately woven doublet. His fine hair is pulled back into a low ponytail. A bejeweled rapier rests in its hilt by his hip.

“A young prince from a neighbouring kingdom is the first to take up the challenge. And so, he is sealed in the antechamber of the Princesses’ rooms, that he may observe their comings and goings at night.”

The young prince lies down on a small cot that has appeared next to him. “But the prince travelled a great distance to arrive at the Kingdom, and his eyelids grew heavy with sleep.” The prince closes his eyes and drifts off into a peaceful slumber. “He doesn’t see where the Princesses go. But sure enough, the next morning, their shoes are full of holes in the soles” The Princesses parade their shoes in a circle around the young prince, almost as if to taunt him.

“On his second night, the same thing happens. The prince cannot stay awake, and the Princesses dance the night away”

The prince falls asleep again, but this time, he disappears.

“On the third night, the young prince vanishes – as if he had never been there in the first place”

Now that has his attention. Lucanis raises an eyebrow at the empty cot floating in front of him.

“Curious” he mumbles, taking another sip of coffee.

She waves several other figures, all of different statures and heights and builds. Elves, dwarves, humans. Warriors and rogues and princes.

“Each potential suitor who takes up the King’s challenge meets the same fate. On the third night, they always disappear without a trace” Each figure winks out of existence, one by one.

“One day, an older, retired sailor from Rivain hears of the King’s challenge while passing through Orlais. He also hears that every previous suitor has disappeared after three nights. But he’s not worried”

With a flourish, a middle-aged man with a tall, well-built stature appears. His face is handsome, but scarred from battle. He’s dressed in humble traveller’s clothes and carries a mage’s stave on his back.

“He’s either very brave, or very stupid”

Madeleina just smiles and winks. “Or, he has help that the other suitors didn’t have”

An amorphous, shifting ball of light appears next to the Rivaini man. “The man was a mage. A tidemaker in the Rivaini navy. His mother was a Seer. Although usually only female mages undergo the training necessary to be able to communicate and bond with spirits, the man had a great talent for magic from a young age. His mother would never let him become possessed by one, like she could, but she taught him enough to be able to commune with them and ask their guidance”

The man walks through the air, with the ball of light bouncing along beside him.

“’Ho there, Spirit-Friend’ he said. ‘I should very much like to unravel the mystery of these Princesses and their dancing shoes. What wisdom can you offer me?’”

The Spirit whirs around the sailor-mage, “’Take not the wine the eldest Princess will offer you before bed. Pretend to be in a deep slumber. Then, under cover of dark, steal after the Twelve to discover what lies beneath the castle’”

If he wasn’t intrigued before, he certainly was now.

The spirit is waved away. The old sailor, armed with this new knowledge, presents himself to the figure of the King, hovering above him.

“The King welcomes the sailor, and just as he did with the other suitors, locks him in with the Princesses”

Madeleina brings the Princesses into view again.

“The oldest princess, Delphine, does exactly as the Spirit said she would. She offers the sailor a glass of wine.”

The figure of Delphine, wine goblet in hand, indeed offers the sailor a drink. But just as the spirit told him to, he refuses, by shaking his head and pretending to go to sleep. He lies down on the same cot the first prince used. The figures of the princesses surround his cot, rather ominously. Lucanis is convinced they’re going to murder him on the spot.

“’He refused the wine! What shall we do?’ cried the second oldest sister, Marie.” The sailor doesn’t stir in his cot. “‘He’s quite asleep, Marie – let’s just go. He cannot follow’ says the eldest. ‘Perhaps he will take the wine tomorrow night’”

One by one, the sisters form a circle around an ornate stone circle, floating beneath them. And like the princesses, one by one, the stones on the circle lift in the air, and a winding staircase opens into the floor.

“The princesses had a secret doorway in the castle. A doorway to another world – or so they thought, at least” Madeleina frowns, and as the princesses disappear down the staircase, the figure of the sailor, creeping behind them, comes back into view. He is glowing black, instead of blue.

“The sailor was clever. He used magic to wrap himself in a cloak of night so as to blend into the shadows. He followed the youngest sister, Charlotte, down the enchanted stairway.” The figure of the sailor walks slowly behind the youngest sister – a beautiful young woman with long, plaited hair and a simpler gown than her sisters.

As the figures continued down the staircase, Charlotte stops. “’Sisters- I know not why, but I fear something terrible will befall us tonight’, says the youngest sister. The other sister’s pause, and it’s the oldest who speaks next. ‘Oh, you goose, you are always frightened. Come, let us enjoy ourselves tonight’”

The figures continue down the endless stairway. The sailor, eager to see what lies at the end, gets a little too close to the figure of Charlotte. His boot catches the end of her dress.

“’Oh! Something pulled at my dress!’ cries the youngest sister, but the others do not heed her. ‘Goose, you have merely stepped on a nail. Come now’” Madeleina puppets the figure of Delphine to wave the other sisters down.

Everything disappears for a moment, while Madeleina regains her strength with a sip of coffee and a nibble of the Hazelnut Torte.

After she’s thoroughly cracked all her knuckles, her hands resume their work. She conjures into existence, the scene of a brilliant underground cavern. A castle within a castle. There is an eerie lake separating the princesses from their destination. Eleven longboats, similar to the one the Caretaker ferries them through the Crossroads with, appear at the lakeside.

The figures at the helm of the longboats is what intrigues him. Lucanis’ eyes widen as he realizes the eleven longboats are steered by the headless figures of the previous suitors.

“Mierda” He whispers, leaning back in his chair. “I didn’t know the Orlesians to be so… macabre”

Madeleina shrugs, “Surprising, right? When I first heard this story, I thought was from Nevarra, honestly”

She makes each princess file into a longboat. Charlotte takes her place beside Delphine in the first one. The headless body of the prince begins rowing them to the other side. The other longboats depart soon after. The figure of the sailor wastes no time sneaking onto one of the other longboats, so as not to tip the weight.

“As he rides with the princesses, the sailor has a sneaking suspicion that he is meant to helm the twelfth longboat. He is thankful for the spirits help, and thankful to have his head on his shoulders”

They arrive at the castle. Madeleina decorates the boughs of trees lining the path with leaves of silver and gold.

“The sailor knew he would need some kind of proof to bring to the King, so he snaps a twig from one of the trees and tucks it in his pocket” He watches the figure do so at Madeleina’s command.

She waves several instruments – trumpets, drums, harps, and more, into existence. They float in the air, above the princesses, and they each take their positions with a respective headless suitor. Except the last princess, Charlotte, who begins to dance on her own. They pirouette and twirl about, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“How did they find this strange castle in the first place?” Lucanis would usually never interrupt a story, especially not one as intriguing as this, but he had to know.

Madeleina gives a sad smile and erases all the figures with a flourish of her hand.

Soon, the figure of Delphine returns, and she is sitting alone on her bed, with her dancing shoes in her hands.

“’Woe is me’ she cried once. ‘I should like to dance with my sisters forever. Alas we are all to be married.’” Delphine lies on her bed and her shoes lay on her chest. “’We shall be scattered to the farthest reaches of the continent to find the most handsome matches. I would do anything to dance with my sisters for a while longer’”

“Ahh….” Lucanis nods. He can see where this is going.

“Yeah” Madeleina frowns. “Something heard her plea. Something that had been trapped in the castle for a long time, watching and waiting for the right time to strike.”

She raises a hand and forms a demon he could only surmise is Desire personified. It has large, bare breasts, barely covered by dangling jewels and chains. Narrow waist, wide hips. Everything about the demon was made to entice. Even its horns added a certain appeal.

He can feel Spite rolling his eyes in the back of his mind. He doesn't like Desire either.

“’Do not despair my child, for I have a way for you and your sisters to remain together, forever’ the Desire demon says to Delphine. ‘And should your father bring any suitors, take their heads and present them to me. I will make sure they never leave this castle. You and your sisters may dance your nights away in my domain. All you need to do is wear the shoes I will gift you every night’”

The desire demon gestures with her hand and twelve pairs of shoes, arranged neatly in a line, and glowing an eerie pink light, appear beside her.

“Delphine agrees, of course. She tells her sisters of the shoes and her plan. The dancing shoes were the key to unlocking the secret castle. Every night they would go and dance the night away. And every time a suitor would come, on the third night, they would behead him and drag his body down the winding staircase.”

A gruesome scene of the eldest princess hacking off the head of the younger prince from the start of the tale begins to play out in front of him. Red light spatters on the princess, before they all fade out.

He’s rubbing his beard absent-mindedly, completely engrossed in the tale now. He’s forgotten about his coffee, and his cake. Every pause stretches into an infinity. Spite is also eager to know how this one ends, and he claws at the backs of Lucanis’ eyelids impatiently.

Madeleina once again conjures the image of the underground castle. The princesses are dancing with their headless suitors, and their ballet shoes are glowing pink now.

“The sailor knows there is dark magic at work here, and he needs to stop it” The figure of the sailor moves soundlessly between the dancing couples. “He follows the trail of magic to the demon’s lair inside the castle”

A room filled with jewels and gold and all manner of treasures appears in front of Lucanis. The desire demon lounges on a settee, adorning herself in riches. She is propping her elbow on the head of a handsome elf. The fifth suitor, he remembers.

“The demon, true to its nature, offers to make any desire of the sailor’s come true” The demon begins sauntering towards the figure of the sailor, all swaying hips. Sailor draws his stave and starts preparing for a battle.

“’I want for nothing you can give me, demon’” The sailor replies. "'Save your head'"

A great battle of magic erupts between the two. They lob arcane missiles and bolts and fireballs at each other, until the Sailor summons the tides of the nearby lake to his side.

“The sailor overwhelms the demon with his power, and she perishes. Almost immediately, the spell over the underground castle starts to fade” The bodies of the dead suitors drop to the ground.

Next, the sailor is standing with the princesses, who all look like they’ve woken up from a dream.

“’What happened?’ asked Marie.” Madeleina has the sailor walk closer to her. He puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “’You were beset by a demon. Fear not, for I have slain it. But let this be a lesson. Put not your faith in whispers of promises too good to be true, my ladies.’”

With that, the sailor bows to the princesses and begins walking away.

“’But sir!’ The youngest calls after him, ‘Won’t you take a reward? Surely our father would give one of us to you in marriage and make you king?’”

The figure of the sailor smiles and twirls the silver branch he plucked from one of the trees.

“’It is reward enough to slay the demon that haunts this palace and learn the secret of your dancing shoes. I never came here to be king’��

Madeleina waves the figures away.

“The sailor continues on his journey across the continent, and Delphine makes peace with parting from her sisters by making the most of what time they have left”

With a final flourish, she has the figures of the twelve princesses pirouette around Lucanis’ chair. They disappear one by one soon after.

“The end”

Lucanis rubs the back of his neck, “That was … something” He says quietly. “I think I need more coffee”

Madeleina nods and stretches out her limbs. “And I think I’m in desperate need of a nap”

Lucanis stands and gathers their uneaten cake on a single plate, as well as their half-empty coffee cups. “Go on, I’m awake. I’ll clean this up. You should sleep”

There’s something in her eyes that makes him feel there’s more she wants to say but can’t bring herself to form the words.

Somewhere, deep in his chest, he knows exactly what it is she’s trying to tell him. Tried to tell him through her story.

But he’s not ready to face that particular truth yet.

There’s someone else’s lips he needs to hear it from. He shudders to think of seeing her wretched corpse again. Not ready for the feelings it’s going to bring up, nor the question he has to ask.

He knows, deep down, that Madeleina pieced it together already.

Lucanis just prays he has the strength to face it when the time comes.

#lucanis dellamorte #lucanis x rook #lucanis x mercar #rookanis #viago de riva #fanfiction #illario dellamorte #fic: bedtime stories for a demon #oc: madeleina mercar #dragon age veilguard #datv #datv spoilers #shiet guys this one took an uncharacteriscally long time to write #hopefully it turned out ok #enjoy a little bit of jealous illario #fun fact the 12 dancing princesses is my fave barbie movie and writing an extremely fucked up version of it was super fun

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larluce · 20 hours ago

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Merlin as Arthur's familiar/Arthur's shapeshifter falcon AU

FIRST PART >> PREVIOUS PART >> NEXT PART

In the guest room. Lancelot, Percival and Elyan eating and being served like they never were in their entire life.

Elyan: (leaning back in his chair) Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the hospitality. But it’s been days. When do we get our reward? Lancelot: (eyeing the door, voice low) I suspect they're waiting until the last chick is found. Percival: (gnawing on a bone) If it’s even alive. Lancelot: Reward or not, we should be grateful for this treatment. When's the next time lads like us will get to eat like lords? Elyan: (pushing back from the table, glancing out the window) Look! The prince's back.

Lancelot and Percival: (hurry to the window, peering out) Percival: He’s carrying something. Must be the missing chick. Elyan: (grinning) Finally! Lancelot: (relieved) I'm glad it's safe. Morgana: (enters) Lancelot, Elyan and Percival: (turn and bow) My lady. Morgana: My apologies for the delay. Rain has been found, so the prince will decide your reward later today. (Her gaze settles on Elyan) Elyan, I’d like to speak with you privately. It concerns your sister. Elyan: (worried, nods) Sure. (leaves the room with her)

In some part of the main square.

Elyan: What happened to Gwen? Morgana: Nothing. Elyan: (confused) But you said- Morgana: (very serious) The chick you brought back, Brave. His father pecked you all over for a reason, didn't he? Elyan: (sweats a bit) I... don't know. Morgana: I must ask. Did you, by any chance, do something to his chick? Elyan: (too quickly) NO! Of course not! Morgana: (stares for a bit and then sighs) Bring Brave a gift. Fresh meat. New scarfs. Something. When you meet the prince. Elyan: (barking a laugh) You want me to bribe a bird? Morgana: Whether you have done something or not, it's clear you are on his bad side. And if the prince realises that, you won't be getting a reward, you'll be going straight to the dungeons. (turns and say over her shoulder) You may go back. (leaves) Elyan: (snorts, to himself) Right, as if the bird could snitch on me. (turns to go back to the guest room) Knight X and Knight: (round a corner, dragging a battered Gwaine between them) Gwaine: (struggling, mid-argument)-Come on! I didn't know it was the prince's pet when I found her! Elyan: (eyes widening) The chick? (jogs forward) Hey! He's the one who found the last chick, wasn’t he? Why are you arresting him? Knight X: He kidnapped the prince's pet. Gwaine: I didn't! Knight Y: And then nearly gave her an infection. Gwaine: I didn't know she couldn't eat cooked meat! Elyan: (folding his arms) How can you be so sure about that? Knight X: We aren’t. But the prince is. Knight Y: Apparently... (Exchanges a look with Knight Y, smirking) a little bird told him. Knights X and Knight Y: (laugh at their own stupid joke and continue to drag Gwaine to the dungeons) Gwaine: (to Elyan, low urgent) Run while you can. These people are crazy. (gets out of sight) Elyan: ... Elyan: I'm screwed.

Time skip. Just after meeting Hunith. Arthur walking out of Gaius' chambers with Merlin in his bird form on his shoulder and the nest with his chicks in his arms.

Merlin: (his chest aiching) Did she... Is her son...? Arthur: (as he walks to his chambers, a sad expression on his face) It seems so. Merlin: (wings trembling slightly) I've never seen pain like that. She looked… broken. Like part of her soul had been torn away. Arthur: (grip tightens imperceptibly on the nest as he glances at his chicks, whispers, more to himself than Merlin) That could've been us. Morgana and Gwen: (encounter them half way) Morgana: (rushing forward) Oh, thank the gods! Rain! (reaches for her) Rain: (fluttering excitedly) Auntie Morgana! 😃 Morgana: (gathers Rain to her chest, eyes shining with unshed tears, relief washing over her features) I was so worried about you. Arthur: (cold) Put her back. Morgana: (joy drains from her face) Arthur… Arthur: I'll decide when I can trust you with them again, Lady Morgana. Morgana: (The formal title lands like a slap) Okay. (carefully returns Rain to the nest) Arthur: (strides past without another glance) Gwen: (gently touches Morgana's shoulder as they watch Arthur retreat) He's hurting right now. This anger won't last. Morgana: (voice breaking) What if he never lets me near them again? Gwen: He will, my lady. (thinking) I'll make sure of it.

Time skip. In Arthur's chambers. Arthur and Merlin (in his human form) taking turns feeding his chicks.

Merlin: (gently stroking Guardian's feathers) Don't you think you were too hard on her? Arthur: (barely audible, not looking up) Not now, Merlin. Merlin: (persistent) Arthur- Arthur: The chicks are here. I don't want to fight. Merlin: (sighs) Gwen: (bursts in) Arthur: (scolds) Guinevere! You can't just enter like that! Merlin could've been- Gwen: IT WAS ME WHO LEFT THE DOOR OPEN! Merlin: ... Arthur: ... Arthur: What? Gwen: (scared to guts, but stays firm) It was me who left the door open. Not Morgana. She took the blame for me so I wouldn't get in trouble with the king or with you. It's... It's my fault the chicks got lost. Chicks: (stir nervously in their nest) Merlin: (quickly conjures a shimmering bubble around the nest, so the chicks won't hear the conversation) Chicks: Wooow! 😲😲😲😲😲 Guardian: Mama, what's that? Rain: Shiny thing!🤩 Merlin: (talks inside the bubble) Shhh. Grown-up talk. Arthur: (slowly stands up an walks to Gwen until he is infront of her, icy calm) I see... Thank you for your honesty, Guinevere. Gwen: (smiles a bit, with tentative hope) Arthur: You are fired. Gwen: (staggers back as if struck) Arthur: (turning away) You have one day to pack your things. You're dismissed. Gwen: (with contained tears in her eyes) Right away, Sire. (about to leave) Merlin: (suddenly appears between them, his arm barring Gwen's path) Gwen, stay right there. You're not fired. Arthur: (whirls around, eyes blazing) I just fired her. Merlin: (standing his ground) And I'm saying she's not. Arthur: (voice rising) We almost lost our chicks because of her negligence! The chicks: (press against the magical bubble, especially Blizzard) Merlin: I'm not excusing her mistake. But tell me, Arthur. (steps closer) Have we been perfect guardians? Arthur: What? Merlin: We lost Blizzard at the feast and he nearly drowned in punch. When they were still eggs, you dozed off and almost crushed them. (softer) Three weeks we've had them, and we're still learning. Morgana and Gwen? Only three days. Don't you think you are being a bit unfair?

Silence. Arthur's jaw works, but says nothing, his gaze flickering to the nest where the chicks are now pecking curiously at the magic barrier.

Arthur: (stubborn) I trust US not to repeat mistakes. Not HER. Merlin: Then sack her. (pauses) But we both know you'll regret how you treated Morgana. You'll go to apologize eventually and when you do (eyes dart meaningfully to Gwen) how do you think that will go if her best friend is sacked?

Arthur's shoulders tense. A long silence stretches. Gwen stands frozen, a single tear tracing down her cheek.

Arthur: (finally, through gritted teeth) …One month's probation. No unsupervised access to the chicks. One more single mistake and you are out in the streets. Gwen: (sags with relief, nodding fervently) Of course. Thank you, Sire. (more meaninfuly, to Merlin) Thank you. Arthur: You are dismissed. Gwen: (bows and leaves)

Merlin's magic bubble pops with a soft chime as the chicks tumble out. Arthur and Merlin sink back onto the bed, the anger and residual tension still there, but forced to keep it together.

Blizzard: (flaps wildly) FREEDOM! 😄 (proceeds to launch himself from pillow to pillow, wings still flapping) Brave: (leaping after him) I broke it! 😄 (puffs out his chest triumphantly) Blizzard: (skidding to a halt) No, I did! 😠 (pecks at Brave's wing for emphasis) Wary: (sinking into the blankets) Aww ☹️ I liked the invisible walls. They felt safe. Rain: (tilting head, watching fading magic sparkles) The shiny thing is gone? 🥺 (her tiny wings droop) Guardian: (From the nest, rises up with all the dignity of a miniature sentry) Back to the nest! (flutters wings authoritatively) We are still grounded!

Merlin exhales a laugh despite himself, watching as Guardian herds the others back toward the nest with surprising efficiency, pushing Blizzard with his beak, nudging Wary gently with his wings. Arthur's rigid posture finally cracks as Rain attempts an ambitious leap toward the nest, only to faceplant directly into Arthur's lap with a soft "chip".

Arthur: (gently stroking Rain's feathers) You're all going to be the death of me.

Across the bed, Guardian finally corrals Blizzard back into the nest with an exasperated chirp. Rain chirps happily, snuggling into Arthur's touch and Merlin watches Arthur's face soften. Merlin's anger melts too as his chicks' chirps fill the quiet chamber.

Brave: Why does Rain get to be in Papa's lap? 😠 Blizzard: She's Papa's favourite, remember? 🙄 Rain: (perking up instantly) Am I? 😃 (beams with delight) Brave: Idiot! She wasn't supposed to know! Now she'll be all smug about it for weeks. 😩 Wary: I'm second favourite. I want to be in Papa's lap too. 🥺 Arthur: (soft chuckle) I don't have any favourites, babies. Who told you that? Chicks: Mama!😊😊😊😊😊 Arthur: (glares at Merlin) Merlin: (innocent shrug) Oh come on, you do have a weak spot for females. (to his chicks) But listen, my chicks, having a favorite doesn't mean less love for others. You also have a favourite parent, and that doesn't mean you love one more than the other. Guardian: (immediately) That's not true! Rain: (nodding vigorously) Yeah, we favourite you the same. Merlin: (lifts an eyebrow) Really? Then...(pauses and suddenly raises his voice) ONE HOUR OF LAP TIME FOR EVERYONE! Chicks: YEAH! 😄😄😄😄😄 Wary and Blizzard: (jump from the nest and get on Arthur's lap) Brave and Guardian: (jump from the nest and get on Merlin's lap) Arthur: (open his eyes wide in surprise, then his heart melts as the chicks snuggle into him and finally shows utter smugness as he meets Merlin's eyes) Merlin: (as he strokes Guardian and Brave) I know what you're thinking. This isn't a competition. Arthur: (innocently) I didn't say anything. (but his smirk grows as Rain climbs onto his shoulder, claiming the highest perch as Papa's favourite).

Meanwhile in the dungeons.

Gwaine: (leaning against the bars) Pssst! Hey! You there! (waves energetically) Guard: (sighs dramatically before sauntering) What now, prisoner? Gwaine: (grinning) When might this royal hospitality conclude? Guard: (raising eyebrow) Depends. What'd you do? Gwaine: (spreading hands innocently) Absolutely nothing! Wrong place, wrong time situation really- Guard: They all say that. Gwaine: But I'm the rare honest one! Ask anyone! (pauses) Well, anyone who's not currently cross with me. Guard: (folds his arms, unimpressed) Alright then, 'innocent man'. What are your charges? Gwaine: (waving dismissively) Oh, just some nonsense about kidnapping the prince's bird- Guard: (suddenly alert) Wait. One of the prince's pets? Gwaine: Yes! A little chick! So surely the sentence can't be more than… (thinking) … a day in the stocks? A light flogging? Guard: Oh you'll be out in no time. Gwaine: (exhaling in relief) Thank the gods- Guard: At your execution. Probably by week's end. Gwaine: ... Gwaine: Come again? Guard: (mimicking bird wings with hands) Those little falcons. The prince would burn Camelot itself if anything happened to them. You'll get beheaded if you're lucky. I've heard that's the painless one. Gwaine: (gaping) But I saved the fluffball! She woul've died if I hadn't found her. Guard: The female? Rain? Oh, forget about a painless death, you're doomed. Gwaine: Please, help me! You can’t honestly believe this punishment fits the crime! Guard: (shrugs) Doesn't matter what I believe. Just what the prince says. Gwaine: Then how do I convince the prince I didn’t kidnap his precious chick?! Guard: (hesitates, his expression conflicted) Gwaine: Come on, friend. First round's on me when I’m out. The good ale. Guard: (sighs) You can't convince the prince. Trying to talk your way out of this will only make it worse. Gwaine: (shoulders slump in defeat, dragging a hand down his face) Guard: But! Just because I feel sorry for you, I'm going to tell you a way. If not, it'll weigh on my conscience that I could have helped someone condemned to death, but I didn't. Even if the chance of it working is actually very slim- Gwaine: (urgent) Just spit it out! Guardia: You have to persuade the bird. Gwaine: ... Gwaine: What? Guard: Rain. The prince didn't just decide you kidnapped her. He KNOWS she felt that way. He's always been good at interpreting his birds' feelings. I don't how he does it, honestly. The day Merlin got lost- Gwaine: (waving hands) Yes, yes, fascinating, skip to the "how" I persuade her. Guard: (lifts eyebrows in disbelief) If you somehow get a moment alone with her? I hear she's fond of things that glitter. Jewels, polished metal, things like that. Gwaine: (remembers Rain's attachment to his bracelet) Of course! Thank you. Guard: (as he walks away) Yeah, yeah. I still think you're a dead man. (leaves)

As the guard's footsteps fade, Gwaine immediately drops to his knees. With practiced fingers, he pries the ornate silver buckles from his fine leather boots. The last remnants of his noble upbringing

Gwaine: (muttering to himself) There goes my last decent pair. (holds up the buckles)

Meanwhile, in Gaius' Tower. Hunith is sitting on a bed, cover in a blanket, while Gaius gives her an infusion.

Hunith: Don't believe me if you want. But I know for certain Merlin is in Camelot. That's the only clue we have. Gaius: We? Who's we? Hunith: Me... and Balinor. Gaius: (opens his eye wide) You encountered Balinor? Hunith: (nods)

She doesn't say she tried to drown herself in a river, when the pain of losing her only child became too much to bear. How the strong hands of the man she thought she'd never see again hauled her gasping onto the bank. How Balinor stilled when he recognized the woman he'd once loved and never stopped loving. Nor does she describe how Balinor's face had crumpled when she screamed the truth between sobs: that the son he never knew existed was now lost forever. His anguished roar had sent birds exploding from the trees.

No, Gaius doesn't need to know that.

Hunith: (flat smile) The gods have a cruel sense of humor. Seventeen years waiting… only to reunite in our worst moment. Gaius: (devasted) So he knows. Hunith: (knuckles whiten around the cup) He tried… (swallows hard) …to sense him with his dragonlord magic. Nothing. The druids could only scry as far as Camelot's borders. (whispering) Alive or… (can't say the word) he's here. Gaius: (softly) And that's why you came. Hunith: (a single tear drops) You've never owed me anything, Gaius. All your kindness… (voice breaks) was given freely. I wouldn't ask now, but- Gaius: (firm, gentle) No asking needed. (pats her hand) I'll petition the king at first light. Hunith: (about to cry again, but composes herself) Thank you.

Gaius smooths the blanket over her lap, then leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, the same way he once did when she was just a girl, sick with fever in their old home. He moves toward the door, but hesitates, his hand lingering on the frame.

Gaius: (turns) One last thing. Balinor… (eyes dart to the window) Did he come? Hunith: (exhales shakily, shaking her head, a bitter smile on her face) We fought. He doesn't trust the royal family for obvious reasons. But I had to try. Gaius: (relieved) Then he's safer outside Camelot's borders. (Pauses, softening) Uther has long believed him dead. When you see him again… tell him he doesn't have to hide anymore.

Hunith’s fingers tighten around the blanket. She doesn’t mention the way Balinor’s voice had turned to embers when he spoke of Uther. How his hands had trembled not with fear, but with a rage that burned as hot as fire. Dragonfire. She doesn’t speak of his vow, hissed between clenched teeth: "If the king had any hand in this, I will see him burn!"

Hunith: (low, almost to herself) I don't think he intends to hide anymore. Gaius: (stiffens) What? Hunith: (shakes her head, forcing a frail smile) Nothing. I'll tell him.

FIRST PART >> PREVIOUS PART >> NEXT PART

...

Tagging @dsabian , @theplatanitosqueal , @stressed-but-chill , @gregre369 , @chaosofbelievers , @thelordofabsolutelynothing , @another-tblr-fangirl , @aceauthorcatqueen , @smileytrinity , @tiny-and-witchy , @wacko-weirdo , @cacklingharpy , @schiwalker , @natsu2501malo , @dearfuturelyn , @thedollopheadofcamelot , @yougottobekittenme , @your-local-asylum-escapee , @theroundbartable , @alo-ween , @orliththedragon , @dumbdemjin , @dangerhumming , @fandomabibliophobia , @beebsnas , @genyxie , @tyanatadraven , @andrealux21 , @justafangirlwithphases , @clairebonnefoy

#bbc merlin #merlin bbc #merlin #merthur #merlin fanfic #merlin fic #merthur fic #merlin and arthur #Merlin as Arthur's familiar/Arthur's shapeshifter falcon AU

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politemenacephd · 1 year ago

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Arachnophilia: (Part Ten)

Drider!Miguel O'Hara x Reader (+18)

Chapter Masterlist 🕷️

Content: Fluff and bonding, Monster/human relationship, Miguel is rutting, Reader goes into heat, Rough PinV sex, Spontaneous outdoor sex, Slight voyuerism/exhibitionism, Mouth covering, Rough biting, Creampie & web sealing, Little bit of angst at the end? CW: Mentions of & brief depiction of deer hunting.

Word count: 6060

One Week Later

‘Are you ready, arañita?’

Miguel’s voice drifted up and into the nest, turning your head towards the entrance. You were halfway through getting dressed and the distraction nearly toppled you to the floor.

‘AH- Yeah! Yeah, I’m- almost ready! Just a minute!’

You struggled into your new outfit; a suit made entirely of silk which Miguel had painstakingly crafted for you. It was super soft and strangely warm, but it clung to the contours of your body a little more than you’d have liked. You kept wondering if Miguel had consciously or perhaps unconsciously made it so form-fitting. After all, this was your third suit of its kind, as he’d ripped the other two to shreds during extremely passionate and wet sex.

You felt your face grow warm at the memory and physically shook it away. No, no time for that. If you slipped back into the heat again you’d never get to go on the trip, and you were excited to go.

As you rose to your feet you took a moment to admire how the nest was coming along. The first thing you’d done was make it homely by adding a window and doors, with the entrance now covered by a crude cut oaken circle that swung outward on a hinge and the walls now adorned with little wooden shuttered holes.

You admired the half-made fireplace in the centre of the room, next to the DIY wooden table and the slowly burgeoning food prep area, before turning to the bed.

The mattress was completely drowning in silken blankets and silken pillows, and the floor beside it was now adorned with the pelt of a stag he’d killed. You knew autumn was approaching and it would only get colder, hence the focus on conserving heat, and while you didn’t want to jinx the relationship you enjoyed planning for the future.

You did feel a little bad since almost all these changes were only for your benefit. You had to preserve heat in this empty forest, but Miguel with his soft fluffy abdomen could remain shirtless all year round.

Your eyes softened affectionately at just the thought. Such a beautiful creature. He was a sight to behold when he stepped out into the cold dawn, where the heat of his muscles created a misty sheen of steam and his white breath curling around his fangs.

‘Arañita!’

You jumped in place as Miguel’s voice echoed from below for a second time. Shit, you’d been daydreaming about him so much you’d forgotten to go down. With fumbling hands you grabbed your bag and rushed out the open door.

‘COMING!’

Where once there was only a short sticky rope to descend from his home there was now a generous ladder, allowing you to easily clamber down to the floor.

Miguel was waiting, patient as ever, his legs gently tapping on the dirt as you approached.

‘Alright! I’m here, sorry. Had some- difficulty with the suit’ you called.

‘Ah, arañita. There you are.’ The joy that lit up his face every time he saw you never failed to make your legs weak.

‘Yep! Here I am.’

‘You look wonderful in that suit, by the way’ he noted as you rushed to his side. You took the time to scoff as you grabbed handfuls of his fur, using it as leverage to drag your body onto his back. His fluff was soft where it brushed your skin, and he smelled like grass dew and wet hair.

‘Oh my god- I knew it, you designed the suit to be too tight on me, didn’t you?’

‘I- well, yes. Is that an issue? Is it uncomfortable?’

You landed on his abdomen with an ‘oomph’ and shuffled forward, settling on his back like a great horse. Your hands wrapped themselves tight around his broad waist.

‘No, but- come on. Little bit pervy.’

‘I thought that was the nature of our relationship’ he argued. He tried desperately to catch your eye but in doing so began spinning in little circles, chasing his back as you continuously ducked out of the way. You took great pleasure in making him spin. ‘I like to look at you, yes. I get great physical joy from admiring your form. You are my mate. I thought this was normal. Is that not normal?’

‘Oh my god Mig—alright, come on! No more wasting daylight hours! Go! Go! Git!’

You gently and playfully kicked his side, urging him onward like a horse, but a firm glare from his bloody red eyes quickly brought you down into an apologetic cower.

‘Sorry! Sorry, uh- shall we, shall we go, darling? At your own discretion?’

He gave a curt nod and began strolling upward into the forest.

Today, he was finally taking you hunting.

The woods, once terrifying and unknowable to you, were slowly becoming a comforting norm. You gazed up at the dizzyingly high pines as Miguel walked upward to where the trees grew sparse and wide.

The early morning daylight trickled down in thin rays, their glow highlighting the tiny specks of dust and flitting little bugs as they passed you by.

This place felt old, untouched. It was cool beneath the heavy canopy above. You could hear nothing but the distant chirps of birds and the occasional creaking of an old tree. As you passed beneath those silent giants you clutched Miguel a little tighter.

‘You were talking in your sleep last night’ you whispered. Mig jumped. You’d been walking for almost ten minutes now in abject silence, so your voice was a surprise.

‘Ah- what was that, mi tesoro?’ he whispered back once he’d regained his composure. You bit down the urge to giggle.

‘Oh, sorry, um- you were talking in your sleep last night. That’s all I said.’

‘I was?’

‘Mhm. It’s very cute. You kept kicking your legs, kicking them and grunting, then you said something like don’t run so fast little one or wait for me and um- I think then you just kinda settled and went back to sleep. Like I said, very cute.’

Miguel rolled his shoulders as he continued strolling onward. You couldn’t tell from here what he was thinking.

‘Mm. I don’t- remember my dreams anymore, but, I know that they’re vivid. I remember the feelings but not the events. So- huh. I wonder what I dreamed about?’

‘I should stay up and keep an eye on you, try and sus it out’ you teased. He managed a breathy little snort of a laugh in response.

‘Ah, I’m not sure about that. What if I say something in my dreams that I shouldn’t?’

‘Oh, pft- like what? You gonna say someone else’s name? you don’t know anyone else, well except Miguel maybe, and if you said his name my first thought wouldn’t be that.’

‘I could still- imply something embarrassing’ he said with a shrug. You’d broached the top of the hills by this point and behind you the view was extraordinary, with small windows in the canopy giving you a perfect view of the city in the distance. Mig paused to turn and look at it with you mid conversation.

‘I could- I don’t know, admit some, sexual fetish I hadn’t even realized yet, some- deep interest in the back of my mind.’

You sighed as you rested on his bicep. With your arms still tight around his waist you gave him an affirming little squeeze. ‘You idiot’ you teasingly chided, ‘you admit everything to me anyway. This morning you immediately confessed that you designed my clothes for your own delight, and- wait, yeah, literally the FIRST day you started rutting you sat me down and told me in great detail your sexual fantasy. You are too honest to be worried about this.’

Another guttural choke escaped his throat, his strange little laugh that now filled you with joy to hear. ‘You are right, as always, my tesoro. I suppose it’s just my anxiety. I- suppose I’m just not used to anyone else being around when I sleep. It’s strangely vulnerable, no?’

‘Yeah, yeah. It’s weird, but, It’s nice though, right?’

You felt his fur bristle beneath you, the strands brushing your leg. Oh, you thought, that meant he was upset about something, right? But, why?

‘Is it?’ he murmured.

You turned and leaned around his torso to try and see his face more clearly, but right as you did so he turned himself and began walking deeper.

‘Hey, is something up?’ you gently pushed.

‘Ah, it… Sometimes- you pull away, at night, when we’re… cuddling.’ The way his voice dipped on the word cuddling, like he was embarrassed to be saying it in front of you. God, he was so sweet. ‘You shuffle away and I wake up without you. I- was worried you were uncomfortable with me.’

‘Oh, I love cuddling Mig! But doesn’t it bother you when you’re trying to sleep? I keep waking myself up because when I roll in my sleep you’re there and I keep thinking I’ll wake you up too.’

He let out a soft ‘humpf’ sound in response, clearly surprised by your response. ‘Ah- I don’t believe so. I haven’t slept any worse since you arrived, except, occasionally waking to check you’re okay.’

‘Oh. Huh. Well, you are… Big? I suppose is the best word? Big ol’ guy, you probably don’t feel me as much. But, like I was saying, I’m just not used to feeling something beside me when I sleep. I’m adjusting my brain to it, that’s all. it doesn’t mean I dislike you or dislike cuddling. We’re just uh- finding boundaries, now we live together.’

He seemed to perk up at the reminder that you were, technically, living together. Living together as partners, a concept he thought he would only ever dream out. He did a little rustle before bounding through the trees.

‘Alright, well, we’re almost there. Let me get you something to eat, mi arañita’

True to his word Mig became utterly focused on the hunt from that point onward.

He bayed you to settle down in the roots of a tree while he got into position, somewhere far enough to dampen your scent but close enough that you could see. He seemed desperate to have you witness him being productive, and you were curious enough to go along with his whims.

In this part of the forest the trees were sparser, allowing more vegetation to cover the dry earth. Miguel had said this gave him more cover for ambush, but you were still stumped as to how this giant man was supposed to hide himself even in the thickest growth. Even when pressed to the floor he was huge, as wide as he was long, covered in bright red and black fur.

Surely a deer would see that, right? Curiosity got the better of you, and you settled down in the roots to watch.

Mig started by feeling the vibrations in the dirt. He tapped at the floor, shuffling back and forth as he listened for something far beyond the scope of your own senses. You saw his eyes widen a few times, indicating that he’d felt something in the distance, and once he seemed sure he began the next unusual stage of this dance.

He dug. He dug into the earth with his enormous legs, filling out a small burrow in which his body could just about fit. He used his legs to drag foliage over his head, masking his scent and his body, until even you could barely see him at all.

And there, he waited. He waited, and waited, as clouds came to cover the sun. He waited in the gloom while you picked at your nails, waiting with a patience that frankly scared you to your core, until you both heard it.

A snap. A twig breaking.

A stag had entered the woods. Immediately you shuffled downward, lying as still as possible in the roots. Mig didn’t move an inch.

The stag was sniffing at the ground as it approached. You were certain that it would smell the enormous spider lying in wait, but somehow it just kept drifting closer and closer. You could see its head dipping to push through the grass, its snout flexing and snorting. Its breath condensed hard in the cool air.

Every muscle in your body tensed. You watched, your heart racing, as the stag went to sniff right over Migs head.

CRACK.

You jumped in your skin as he pounced.

It was terrifying. It was pure, primal, a spectacle of undiluted power. He moved with a speed that seemed impossible for something of his size, so large and yet so nimble, as his legs propelled him out of the dirt and onto the beast. It tried to run but his claws caught its neck.

With the sheer weight of his body he brought the bleating giant down. You saw a flash of his eyes, blood red with a single white pupil, right before he clamped his jaws on its neck.

It was over in seconds. The moment the deer stopped moving you scrambled out of the roots to join him.

‘Holy- shit, you’re so fast!’

Mig unclamped the catch with a soft grunt. You could see the blood on his jaw and neck which he immediately smeared with the back of his hand before facing you. He had such a strangely shy smile on his face.

‘Oh- you saw! You saw it. What did you think?’

‘It was… terrifying! Wow! You are- so, strong!’ you said with an awkward laugh. You left out how weirdly enjoyable it was to see him at full strength, to have witnessed the power and carnage he was capable of.

His grin widened as he took your comment at face value. ‘Thank you, arañita. That- makes me happy. I like showing you that I can be of use.’

‘Oh, Mig you idiot.’

You leaned in and affectionately touched his hair, gently brushing back the thick curls. He almost purred at the touch. ‘Now- jesus, let’s get you cleaned up and get home.’

You used a strip of silk from your back to try and clear his face, though he kept nestling into your hand which made it difficult to finish. Something about hunting for you seemed to make him especially soft. He would tap his feet for attention and rustle against you, and you would tut at him while secretly enjoying his touch.

That peaceful downtime did not last long though. As you were brushing yourself down, preparing to head back down, you noticed that Mig had stopped pacing. When you turned to check on him his eyes were wide.

‘Mig?’ you said softly. He didn’t move. You watched with ever growing curiosity as he began to dart his gaze across the forest line, almost as if he was looking for something. You followed his line of sight but could see nothing yourself.

It was only then, on the cusp of your lips parting to question Mig on what he was doing, that your senses picked up the same thing he had.

Your eyes locked in a moment of shared terror.

Footsteps. Distant footsteps, growing closer with every step. Idle chit chat that echoed in the trees, something about being lost and forgetting the map. You sensed a flask on an overstuffed backpack slowly clinking against a metal keychain.

‘Hikers’ you hissed. Mig gave a silent nod.

No, no, no. This was bad, you thought. What were people doing this far out? Why today of all days?

You didn’t want to risk a run in with civilians. You knew Mig was safe, but you also remembered how you’d acted the first time you saw him, and more importantly you remembered his distress at being seen.

Without another word you jumped into action, hopping his back in one fell swoop while he grabbed the kill by the nape of its hide. He lifted it as easily as a cat carrying a kitten, a feat you barely had time to appreciate, as he broke into a canter the moment you were mounted.

In silence you hurried back down the way you’d come.

For about half the way down it seemed to be smooth sailing. Mig made easy progress through the woods, his eight legs silently tapping back and forth on the mulchy earth as you descended to home. Your senses could feel the hikers getting further and further away.

In no time at all you saw the glade appear at the bottom of the hill, a tiny little circle in a sea of evergreen pines slowly sinking downward. You let out a contented sigh.

But then you felt it.

You felt It.

That foreboding tug in your gut. The gentle throbbing that sank down through your insides, the pulsing of blood as your heart sped up. The yearning, the need, the subconscious addictive pleading for satisfaction.

No, no, no, NO. You couldn’t stop here, right? The hikers weren’t far enough away yet.

You shuffled, trying to secretly suppress it, when Miguel abrupted stumbled to a halt himself. You heard him drop the stag with a thump.

Shit. You could smell it. It was heavy in the air, a smell you couldn’t describe with words but which you felt in your loins. He was rutting too.

Your eyes rolled. Oh that smell, it gave you goosebumps. That smell alone dragged you to him like a magnetic force.

‘Arañita?’

His words were soft as he spoke. Those were dangerous words, hungry words.

‘Mig?’

You felt so small on his back as his shoulders arched. You had to tilt your head to see his face, to see the bright glow of his eyes as his head instinctively tilted sideways. You balked. Those eyes were fucking starving.

‘Mig’ you breathed.

His abdomen vibrated softly, rustling against your skin in a way that sent pleasurable shivers through your thighs and spine. You shuddered against him. ‘Mig, don’t—careful—’

He breathed out hard, his breath condensing in the air. ‘Ah… Arañita …’

It curled like smoke around his bloody maw. His full lips parted and he breathed in through the mouth, releasing a dark and foreboding growl. ‘Ah…’

‘Mig—we need to get back—’

He was breathing heavier now. You could see his enormous spider legs quivering as he fought the urge slowly infecting his mind. The urge to pin, to fill, to penetrate, to feel. The urge to claim. The urge to see your pretty form, naked and sweating and shaking as you struggled to take him, as you were fucked to the brim with his very being.

When he huffed smoke for a second time a breathy moan escaped his throat. It was a mating call, plain and simple, echoing through the trees.

‘Mig… Mig…’

It was pitiful; your pleading had gone from genuine concern to depraved praise as you whispered his name over and over again. While you pleaded Mig struggled to focus on his senses. His body was begging, screaming even, to take you now, but he could just feel the hikers still approaching their location.

‘We need- to get back- to the nest’ he panted. You didn’t even respond.

At this point you were broken, involuntarily grinding your hips into his fur for any semblance of relief. Your body was burning to the point that sweat was sticking your suit to the contours of your skin, highlighting every little dip and curve.

‘Miggy—’

‘Arañita!’

His bark of an order made you mewl.

‘We need- to get back—’

‘O-Okay’ you whined. Slowly, painfully, Miguel began to continue his walk down the hillside towards the glade.

It was agony. You’d gotten so used to instant gratification that pushing through the need was now hellish, especially combined with the need to run.

It was an itchy heat, a prickling heat, and as your blood began to pump you felt your insides begin to pulsate. Throb after throb, each harder than the last, as every muscle inside you twitched and tensed around a cock that wasn’t there.

You could feel his body beneath you. You could sense him, feel him in every part of your body. All you could think about was feeling more, tasting more, as that desperate curdling need to feel his cock inside you flooded all of your senses. It was physically unbearable.

‘Don’t’ your mind screamed as you pulled at his fur.

‘Don’t do it’ his mind pleaded as he forced himself forward.

But you were no match for each other’s potent smell. No risk, not even death, felt important compared to that burning ache.

You collapsed from his body and into the dirt with a low moan, unable to maintain yourself any longer. Miguel descended on you in seconds.

You squeaked and squirmed as he gripped you in his claws. He pounced like you were prey. He flipped and thrust your body down onto its back, his gruff hands immediately pinning your arms to the floor. The frail little bones in your wrists screamed out at the pressure.

‘Mig!’

He hissed and flexed his teeth on your neck, hot breath cascading over your skin as the smell of musky hormones and blood filled your nose.

‘I can’t- wait—’ he panted. You could already feel his abdomen rubbing and grinding on you, his slit unable to contain his erection any longer. You could feel the thick, warm shaft smearing your new suit with his thick, pearly pre-cum. ‘I need- you, please- I need it- it hurts—’

You knew it was dangerous, but your brain was a melted pot of red hot lust. You couldn’t fight it anymore. With a soft whine you lay back and turned your head to the side, frantically nodding for him to continue.

‘Okay, fuck—I can’t wait, fuck—just, be quick, please’ you panted.

He didn’t even bother to fully undress you. With a hiss he bent and ripped a hole in your suit with his mouth, a dangerous tactic as his teeth brushed your pussy lips as he tore the silk aside. He took one deep sniff of your pheremones before physically dragging your body into position.

He forced your legs into a mating press, his hefty torso straining the muscles in your thighs to bend to his will. He rustled slightly as he pushed into position, roughly edging his bulbous member against your slit, and as you felt the first inch spreading you open you knew it was over.

‘Okay, okay’ he panted, ‘shh- sh, stay still for me arañita, let me just—fill you—’

He thrust, hard, and with one excruciatingly tight stretch he was inside you again.

‘M-MM--!’ Your hips bucked and tensed, rocking from side to side as you struggled to adjust. Miguel gasped like he’d just avoided drowning.

‘Ah—ahh—that’s it, that’s it. I’ll be- quick, just- stay still, mi tesoro, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.’

The moment he entered you he started to frantically rut to completion, his abdomen jerking back and forth as he fucked you into the dirt. Your fingers dug into his arms.

‘MM--!’ It was painful to hold back your screams. You had to bite your tongue until it bled, until the taste of iron filled your mouth and nose, all in a vain attempt to not be caught. He was so fucking rough.

‘Sweet little spider’ he whined. You felt him thrust a little deeper and squirmed with joy at the familiar mixture of ache and pleasure.

‘It’s… ‘S so good’ you whispered in a needy, whiney breath. ‘So—good…’

Desperate now to finish quickly, Miguel angled himself a little further back. He needed the one thing that he couldn’t resist, his most primal indulgence. He wanted to see it. Your small, soft, sweet human body, perfectly impaled on his enormous shaft. The sight sent full body shivers through his spine.

‘So… tight…’

He looked utterly pussy drunk, mesmerised almost. He watched your slick coat his cock as he drew back, those translucent sticky strings hanging between his abdominal fur and your pretty little slit. They made his black veins glisten as they pulsed against your swollen cunt.

‘Mi… aranita…’

He stared, unblinking, as he moved his hand and began touching the spot where he’d entered you. He brushed his thumb down and across your swollen clit, those wet and messy folds, until it came to rest where his shaft was splitting you open. He watched you swallow him whole.

‘Pretty, pretty little spider’ he whispered. ‘F-fuck…’

He watched your hips jolt as he gave a few short pumps about halfway in, fixated on the way you stretched and wriggled with pleasure. His previous seed was now oozing out at the sides as he pumped in and out, just adding to the absolute mess you were making.

‘So, so… pretty…’

You felt his claws suddenly hit your neck, pressing you down until you were forced to be still. He continued to watch with wide and unblinking eyes as his thick rod squished back and forth, back and forth, filling you until you bulged before slowly slipping out with a wet pop.

‘Mm- mm—’

He was grunting hard as he moved.

‘So, fucking, pretty—’

‘Is it this way?’

Your whole body went rigid at the sound of unfamiliar voices, but you didn’t even have time to process your shock, because Miguel didn’t stop.

Even as the voices got louder he continued rutting you into the floor, his breathy grunts just barely audible in the rustling undergrowth.

You silently slapped at his arm but he couldn’t bring himself to pause. He impulsively clamped his hand over your mouth, his eyes deadly and starved as they stared down at your panicked expression.

‘Stay. Quiet’ he mouthed. Despite your fear, you were just as needy. You let him have you.

He bent your legs into your ribs just to slip deeper, his thick shaft eagerly kissing and smearing your cervix with pre-cum. Your breath was hot on his calloused hand as it muffled your desperate moans.

Despite his rational mind knowing that he needed to be quiet, Mig’s carnal desperation was driving him towards risky behaviour. You could hear the clap of his skin between your thighs echo with each wet pop as he pushed in and out, a symphony just as terrifying as it was erotic.

You watched him savor the feel of your body. You watched him as he experienced you.

‘Ah—ahh—ah—’

He flexed his jaw until it hurt trying to suppress his cries of pleasure, and in a second moment of impulse he bent down and sank his fangs into your shoulder. Your squeaks were silenced.

Now clamped by the terrifying power of his maw you were utterly surrendered. You could feel his teeth moving in tandem with his cock, filling and shifting inside you, flooding you with that same potent mixture of pain and pleasure.

You raked your fingers down his back, drawing red lines into his rough scarred skin. He dug his claws into the dirt.

The footsteps got closer, but there was no breaking free. You were trapped together. With a muffled grunt Miguel sped up to completion.

‘MMFF—’

He came inside you silently, with all his gutteral noises muffled by your skin. You felt it all the same. The heavy spurts, the hot seed flooding in and squirting against his soft underside when your cunt ran out of room. You were filled until you bulged.

In the high of that release you were nearly dizzy. Your eyes fluttered shut as your hormones overpowered any rational fear about being seen. All you could do was lull and whine, relishing the sweet gratification of being filled again.

‘Mig’ you whispered. ‘My Mig. You—’

Snap.

Your eyes shot open.

You tilted your head, slowly, just enough for your eyes to roll and spy the woods behind you. Two hikers were frozen in place, their bodies just barely obscured by the trunk of a pine.

They were staring at you. You, your body pinned beneath the torso of your half spider mate, still fully impaled on his monstrous cock, with your head in his neck and your flesh in his maw.

Your blood ran cold as your body tensed. To say you were mortified was an understandment, it felt like your heart might give out. You felt Miguel’s breath steaming against your shoulder as he panted into it. Did he know? Had he realized?

You opened your mouth but no sound spare a painful squeak escaped. Your brain was utterly fried.

The one to break the tension then was Mig, who decided to release your shoulder and stare directly at the two strangers. Mouth bloodied, eyes red, his naked body straining and panting for air.

Their reaction was swift.

‘FUCK!’

The two hikers almost fell over each other as they ran, both frantically fleeing for their lives into the overgrown brush.

‘JESUS- CHRIST, WHAT WAS THAT?!’

‘WAS IT EATING THEM?!’

‘F-Fuck, FUCK! I DON’T KNOW JUST- GO!’

‘We have to call for help—’

‘JUST RUN JUST- FUCKING RUN!!’

As the screams grew distant, you felt Miguel slowly pull out. His hands were quick to plug you up and carefully stitch your suit back together at the crotch, but you were too exhausted to move.

‘Shhiittt.’

It was the only thing you could think to say as you lay back in the mud, your head still a little woozy from the whole experience. Mig just grunted.

‘Shit, shit, shit. Ah…. I’m- I’m sure it’s fine. It’s fine. I- fuck, are you okay Mig?’

He grunted again as he lifted you up into his arms. His spider legs hooked the stag’s carcass and carefully manoeuvred it onto his back, allowing him to begin the short final trek back to the clearing with you still in his arms. The longer he went without saying a word, the more you began to worry.

‘Mig?’

You patted his cheek as he walked, trying in vain to get his attention. His only response was to sigh.

‘It’s okay’ you said, your voice now rather timid. ‘It’s fine, they- we probably won’t ever see them again. And hey, we didn't have to fight them! That's good, right? They just- left.’

‘It’s not that.’

You were surprised when words finally left his mouth, especially when they were delivered so sadly. He was blunt, yes, but not usually this melancholy, especially after sex.

‘What is it then?’ you asked. It took him a few more seconds to reply.

‘They thought… I was eating you’ he murmured. ‘If I’d been anyone else, they wouldn’t have screamed. We would have been- yelled at, perhaps, or chastised for being perverts. Maybe they’d have just, awkwardly moved away. But they would never have assumed I was eating you.’

The sombre reality sank in slowly. Somehow, you’d both forgotten the reality of what this was. What he was. You tried to shrug it off. ‘Wait, that’s what you’re worried about? I mean… If you were just, purely human, they might have still assumed you were murdering me. People can do murder too yanno.’

He managed a small, throaty chuckle at your light teasing, but it was strained. He looked distant, distracted, alone in his own mind. You gently shook his arm to drag him back down to reality.

‘Hey. It’s fine. You’re fine’ you repeated.

‘Does it not, bother you? The way they reacted?’

‘Mig I would have been mortified to be caught like that whether you were fully human or not’ you scoffed. He seemed unconvinced.

‘If they’d- seen us, holding hands’ he said, slowly musing over the theoretical aloud, ‘if they’d seen us… kissing, or even just sitting together, they would have run. They would still be terrified.’

It was hard to maintain a smile in the face of his dour prediction. You knew he was right, but you didn’t want to simmer in that pool of despair, and you didn’t want him to wallow in it either.

‘People- when they see something they don’t understand, they, react like animals. Sometimes they run, sometimes they fight. They squash it so you don’t have to think about it. It’s easier.’

That morbid thought made him wince, but you refused to let go. You leaned in and tilted his head back towards you.

‘And it’s horrible. It’s horrible, and it hurts, but then there’s other people. Other people, who- know what it’s like, to be the- scared little spider on the wall. And they know, Mig. They knew. I know. And I’m not scared of you.’

To your joy he managed to shoot you a ghost of a smile, just the barest tilting of his lips. It was enough for you, even if you’d only managed to distract him for a bit.

‘Besides, who do we have to disappoint?’ you said in an attempt to lighten to mood. ‘I don’t have friends to introduce you too, or family, or co-workers. You’re alone. We don’t need to worry about what people think.’

‘You say that now, arañita, but… I don’t know, I don’t feel like that will remain true forever. I also don’t appreciate you indulging my possessive nature.’

‘Awh, what? How, what did I do?’

‘Implying we’re all we’ve got’ he said softly. ‘It makes me- happy, but on some level, I know it shouldn’t.’

‘Well, hey! You know it shouldn’t, so- you know, that’s a start.’

Mig ducked his head beneath a row of branches as he re-entered the clearing. In the clear, bright light of the burgeoning sun he looked glorious.

‘Yes, but—I also know that I willingly ignore that fact and, pretend it is acceptable’ he confessed with a slight shrug. ‘Because- well, it comforts me, especially when I’m reminded that we are… different, to put it nicely.’

‘Well, as long as you’re not getting feisty, huh? I’ll just be sure to let you know if it ever gets annoying’ you offered. You pressed your face against his pec, right over his heart, and tapped it like you were making a promise. He gave you that sweet little ghost of a smile.

‘Very well, mi tesoro. I will hold you to that.’

You allowed Mig to drop the kill near the base of the nest before climbing back in with you still in his arms. You lulled a little in the sudden warmth, placated by the warm orange rays of sunlight warming the floor, and the moment he slid you onto the bed you collapsed into it.

‘Mmm… Yanno, that was the first time we were under such pressure from the heat that you didn’t make me orgasm’ you noted with a yawn. It was more a dry observation than a real problem you had, but it immediately caused Mig to bristle in horror.

‘I- oh, no you’re right. You poor little spider.’

‘It’s okay! I don’t blame you, it—HEY!’

You squealed with delight as he dove onto the mattress, his weight flinging your body a few feet into the air before landing back into his already outstretched arms.

‘Let me fix that’ he purred, his breath brushing your ear. ‘Please, mi aranita, let me taste you again.’

With an eager grunt his lips met yours, his abdomen rustling with excitement as his tongue went down your throat. You were smothered in seconds.

You gave in to his whining need to please and relished in the chance to scream again, your wet lips quivering his name with each breath as he tore your third new suit to pieces for just a lick of your cunt.

You were too focused on his mouth to notice anything as you tossed every item of clothing to the floor. Between his whiny moans and your own panting, you couldn’t have possibly heard anything else.

You certainly couldn’t have heard your society watch as it buzzed against the fur rug, the name ‘Jess’ highlighted in clear orange light. It was left to ring to voicemail instead, with neither of you aware it’d even gone off. Link to next part!

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